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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


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-^v 


By  canon  SHEEHAN,  D.D 


Luke  Delmege:  A  Novel. 

Lisheen:   or  the  Test  of  the  Spirits.    A  Novel. 
Glenanaar:  A  Novel  of  Irish  Life. 
The  Blindness  of  Dr.   Gray;   or,  The  Final  Law. 
A  Novel  of  Clerical  Life. 

Miriam  Lucas:   A  Novel. 

The  Queen's  Fillet:   A  Novel. 

The  Graves  at  Kilmorna:  A  Story  of  '67. 

Parerga:     a    Companion    Volume    to    "Under    the 

Cedars  and  the  Stars." 
The  Intellectuals:   An  Experiment  in  Irish  Club- 

Life. 
Tristram  Lloyd:  An  Unfinished  Novel.     Edited  and 

completed  by  Rev.  H.   Gaffney,   O.P. 


Canon  Sheehan  of  Doneraile:  The  Story  of  an 
Irish  Parish  Priest  as  told  chiefly  by  himself  in 
Books,  Personal  Memoirs  atid  Letters.  By 
Herman   J.  Heuscr,  D.D. 


LUKE    DELMEGE 


LONGMANS,  GREEN  AND  CO. 

5  J     FIFTH    AVENUE,    NEW    YORK 

2Zl    EAST    20TH    STREET,    CHICAGO 

TREMONT    TEMPLE,    BOSTON 

2  10    VICTORIA    STREET,    TORONTO 


LONGMANS,  GREEN  AND  CO.  Ltd. 

39    PATERNOSTER    ROW,    E    C    4,    LONDON 

5  3     NICOL    ROAD,    BOMBAY 

6    OLD    COURT    HOUSE    STREET,    CALCUTTA 

167    MOUNT    ROAD,    MADRAS 


LUKE    DELMEGE 


BY    THE 

REV.   P.  A.   SHEEHAN 

Author  of 

''My  New  Curate,"  "Geoffrey  Austin  :  Student,''  "  77ie 

Triumph  of  Failure,'^  "Cithara  Mea,"  etc.,  etc. 


New  Impression 


LONGMANS,  GREEN  AND  CO. 

NEW  \ORK  ■  LOiNDOxN  •  TORONTO 

1928 


COPTKIGHT,    1900   AND   1901,    BY 

THE  AMERICAN   ECCLESIASTICAL  REVIEW. 


CoPYRUiHT,    1901,    BY 

LONGMANS,    GREEN,   AND  CO. 


All  riyhin  7eserved. 


First  Edition,  November,  1901.  Reijrinted  Jan- 
uary, 1902;  May,  1905;  .Tanuarv,  1907;  March  1910- 
January,    1916;    April,    1920;    March,    1924;    August' 


MADE    IX   THE    UNITED    STATES 


"^'^  NOTE 

A. 

•arc 


Through  the  courtesy  of  the  Editor  of  the  Ameri- 
:•.  CAN  Ecclesiastical  Review,  throug-h  wliose  pages 
-)  this  story  has  been  running  as  a  serial,  it  is  now  repro- 
,  duced  in  book  form. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I.  Introductory  . 

II.  The  Illusions  of  Youth 

III.  TuK  Sagacities  of  Age 

IV.  Dies  Magna,  et  —  Amara 
V.  A  Novel  Thesis     . 

VI.  Adieux      .... 

VII.  En  Route 

VIII.  Aliuun      .... 

IX.  The  Realms  of  Dis 

X.  "The  Strayed  Reveller' 

XI.  Circe         .... 

XII.  Critical  and  Expository 

XIII.  Racial  Characteristics 

XIV.  AVeighixg  Anchor 
XV.  Ayleshurgh 

XVI.  Enchantment 

XVII.  A  Last  Aphorism   . 

XVIII.  Disenchantment 

XIX.  The  Stranger  am>  his  Gods 

XX.  Eclectic  Catiioi.k  ism    . 

XXI.  The  SuitMKinjKo  Tenth 

XXII.  Euthanasia 

XXIII.  The  Rhine  Falls  . 

XXIV.  The  Hall  of  Eclis 
XXV.  Altruism  .... 

vii 


PAGE 

3 

17 

29 

42 

53 

65 

79 

95 

107 

118 

129 

140 

153 

166 

181 

194 

207 

220 

233 

249 

262 

275 

286 

306 

321 


VIU 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XXVI.  The  Secret  of  the  King 

XXVII.  A  Great  Treasure 

XXVIII.  Mary  of  Magdala  . 

XXIX.  A  Parliamentary  Dinner 

XXX.  Cross  Currents 

XXXI.  Greek  meets  Greek 

XXXII.  Percussa  et  Humiliata 

XXXIII.  Dagox  dismembered 

XXXIV.  Cremona  and  Calvary  . 
XXXV.  A  Lecture  on  Biology  . 

XXXVI.  A  Boast  and  its  Consequences 

XXXVII.  Disillusion         .... 

XXXVIII.  Logwood  Day    .... 

XXXIX.  Martyrdom        .... 

XL.  Reunion 

XLI.  A  Profession  Sermon 

XLII.  Aftermath         .... 


PAGB 

337 
350 
366 
378 
392 
408 
421 
431 
451 
465 
480 
493 
509 
527 
544 
556 
570 


BOOK   I 


LUKE  DELMEGE 

CHAPTER   I 
INTRODUCTORY 

It  happened  in  this  way.  I  was  absorbed  in  a  day- 
dream —  an  academic  discussion  with  myself  as  to 
whether  demand  created  supply  or  supply  elicited  de- 
mand—  a  hoary  question  throughout  all  the  debating 
societies  of  the  world  ;  and  I  was  making  but  little 
progress  toward  its  solution,  when  suddenly  it  solved 
itself  in  a  remarkable  manner.  I  thought  1  heard,  above 
the  rumbling  and  muflled  thunder  of  the  colossal  printing 
press,  far  away  in  a  certain  street  in  New  York,  the 
word  "  Copy  "  shouted  up  through  a  telephone.  The 
voice  was  the  voice  of  that  modern  magician,  the  fore- 
man printer.  "  Copy  "  echoed  in  the  manager's  room, 
where,  amid  piles  of  paper,  damp,  and  moist,  and  redolent 
of  printer's  ink,  the  great  potentate  sat.  "  Copy,"'  he 
shouted  through  his  teleplione,  with  scmiething  that 
sounded  like  a  prayer — but  it  wasn't  —  to  the  editor, 
many  miles  away.  "  Copy,"  shouted  the  editor  through 
his  telephone  —  no!  that  hasn't  come  yet,  but  it  will 
one  of  these  days.  P>ut  ''Copy,"  he  wrote  three 
thousand  miles  across  the  bleak,  barren  wastes  of  the 
turbulent  Atlantic  to  one  sitting  on  a  rustic  seat  in  a 
quiet  garden  in  a  country  village  beneath  the  shadows 
of  the  black  mountains  that  separate  Cork  County  from 
Limerick,  and  with  Spenser's  "-gentle  ]\lulla"  almost 
washing  liis  feet ;  and  "  Copy  "  settled  the  academic 
question  forever.  That  mighty  modern  IMinotaur,  the 
press,  must  be  glutted,  not  with  fair  youths  of  Arcady 


4  LUKE   DELMEGE 

and  fair  maidens  of  Athens,  but  with  thoughts  that 
spring  from  the  brains  of  mortals,  and  dreams  that 
draw  their  beautiful,  irregular  forms  across  the  twilight 
realms  of  Fancy. 

This  it  is  that  makes  literary  men  irreverent  and 
unscrupulous.  Was  it  not  said  of  Balzac,  that  he  dug 
and  dragged  every  one  of  his  romances  straight  from 
the  heart  of  some  woman  ?  "  Truth  is  stranger  than 
fiction."     No  !  my  dear  friend,  for  all  fiction  is  truth 

—  truth  torn  up  by  the  roots  from  bleeding  human 
hearts,  and  carefully  bound  with  fillets  of  words  to  be 
placed  there  in  its  vases  of  green  and  gold  on  your 
reading-desk,  on  your  breakfast-table.  Horrid  ?  So 
it  is.  Irreverent  ?  Well,  a  little.  But  you,  my  dear 
friend,  and  the  rest  of  humanity  will  have  nothing  else. 
"  Nihil  humani  a  me  alienum  puto,"  said  the  Latin  poet. 
We  have  gone  a  step  further.  We  will  have  nothing 
that  is  not  human.  The  stage  may  be  gorgeous  ;  the 
scenery  painted  by  a  master  hand ;  the  electric  light 
soft,  lambent,  penetrating;  the  orchestra  perfect  from 
bass  drum  to  first  fiddle ;  but  the  audience  gapes  and 
yawns,  and  is  impatient.  There  is  something  wanting. 
Ha!  there  it  is,  and  we  are  all  alive  again.  Opera 
glasses  are  levelled,  men  and  women  hold  their  breaths 
lest  the  least  trifle  should  escape  them  ;  the  mighty 
conductor  is  nowhere ;  all  eyes  are  strained  on  what  ? 

—  a  little  child,  perhaps ;  a  clown,  an  Italian  shep- 
herdess, a  bandit,  a  fool,  —  no  matter,  it  is  human,  and 
it  is  for  this  figure  that  stage  and  scenery,  lights, 
flowers,  and  music  become  at  once  ancillary  and  sub- 
servient. And  so,  when  Copy  !  Copy ! !  Copy !  !  t 
tinkled  like  an  impatient  electric  bell  in  my  ears,  I 
said :  I  must  seek  a  type  somewhere.  Look  into  your 
inner  consciousness,  said  a  voice.  No  use !  It  is  a 
tabula  rasa,  from  which  everything  interesting  has  been 
long  since  sponged  away.  Call  up  experiences  !  Alas  ! 
experiences  are  like  ancient  photographs.  At  one  time, 
I  am  quite  sure,  this  elegant  gentleman,  dressed  in  the 
fashion  of  the  sixties,  was  attractive  and  interesting 


INTRODUCTORY  6 

enough.  Now,  alas,  he  is  a  guy.  So  with  experiences. 
They  thrill,  and  burn,  and  pierce,  then  fade  away  into 
ghosts,  only  fit  to  haunt  the  garret  or  the  lumber  room. 
No  !  get  a  living,  breathing,  human  being,  and  dissect 
him.  Find  out  all  his  thoughts,  dreams,  sensations, 
experiences.  Watch  him,  waking  and  sleeping,  as  old 
Roger  Chilling  worth  watched  Arthur  Dimmesdale  in 
that  teri'ible  drama  by  Hawthorne.  Then  you  have 
flesh  and  blood  quivering  and  alive,  and  the  world  is 
satistied. 

Fate,  or  the  Fates,  who  are  always  kind,  threw  some 
such  subject  across  my  path  in  those  days  when  imagi- 
nation was  feeble  and  the  electric  bell  was  growing 
importunate.  I  knew  that  he  had  a  story.  I  guessed 
at  it  by  intuition.  Was  it  not  Cardinal  Manning 
who  said,  when  he  was  asked  to  imitate  his  great 
compeers,  Wiseman  and  Newman,  by  writing  a  novel, 
"  that  every  man  carried  the  plot  of  at  least  one  ro- 
mance in  his  head  ?  "  Now,  this  man  was  a  mystic  and 
a  mystery.  He  was  a  mystic,  or  was  reputed  one,  be- 
cause he  had  once  —  a  young  man's  folly — written 
something  about  Plato  ;  he  was  called  a  mystery,  be- 
cause he  wore  his  hair  brushed  back  from  his  forehead 
right  down  over  his  coat  collar  ;  and  scarce  one  of  the 
brethren  had  ever  seen  his  inner  sanctum,  or  was  ever 
able  to  break  through  the  crust  of  a  deportment  which 
was  always  calm  and  gentle  and  sweet,  but  which  drew 
an  invisible  line  somewhere  between  you  and  him  —  a 
line  of  mystic  letters  :  "  Thus  far  shalt  thou  come,  and 
no  farther."  Some  thought  that  he  gave  himself  too 
many  airs  and  was  conceited  ;  one  or  two  rough-spoken, 
hard-fisted  colleagues  dul)l)e(l  him  as  Carlyle    dubbed 

Herbert  Spencer  :   "an  immeasurable ;  '"  but  there 

he  was,  always  calmly  looking  out  on  the  tossing,  tur- 
bulent ocean  of  humanity  from  the  quiet  recesses  of  an 
unluxurious  hermitage,  and  the  still  deejter  and  more 
sequestered  recesses  of  a  quiet  and  thoughtful  mind. 

Like  all  conscientious  interviewers,  I  had  made  a  few 
desperate  attempts  to  get  inside  this  mystery  and  un- 


6  LUKE  DELMEGE 

ravel  it,  but  I  had  always  been  repelled.  I  could  never 
get  beyond  the  adytum  of  the  temple,  though  I  coughed 
loudly,  and  put  the  shoes  off  my  feet  with  reverence. 
It  was  unapproachable  and  impenetrable.  One  day, 
however,  it  was  borne  to  his  ears  that  I  had  done  a 
kind  thing  to  some  one  or  other.  He  no  longer  said 
with  his  eyes  :  You  are  a  most  impertinent  fellow  ! 
The  outworks  were  taken.  Then  I  wrote  him  a  hum- 
ble letter  about  some  old  fossil,  called  Maximus  Tyrius. 
To  my  surprise  I  received  four  pages  of  foolscap  on  the 
Fourth  Dissertation  :  — 

Quomodo  ah  adulatore  amicus  distingui  possit. 

Then,  one  winter's  night,  I  was  bowling  home  in  the 
dark  from  the  railway  station,  and  became  suddenly 
aware  that  voices  were  shouting  warnings  from  afar  off, 
and  that  the  line  was  blocked.  So  it  was — badly.  My 
mysterious  friend  was  vainly  trying  to  cut  the  harness 
on  his  fallen  mare,  whilst  his  trap,  dismembered,  was 
leaning  in  a  maudlin  way  against  the  ditch. 

"A  bad  spill?"  I  cried. 

"  Yes  !  "  he  said  laconically. 

"  Is  the  jar  broke  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  he  said  stiffly.  Then  I  knew  he  had 
not  heard  the  famous  story. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  quite  understand 
your  allusions." 

''  Never  mind,"  I  said,  with  all  the  contempt  of  a 
professional  for  an  amateur,  as  I  saw  him  hacking  with 
his  left  hand,  and  with  a  dainty  mother-of-pearl-handled 
penknife,  the  beautiful  new  harness.  "  What  do  you 
want  mutilating  that  harness  for,  when  the  trap  has  been 
kicked  into  space  ?  " 

"  I  thought  'twas  the  correct  thing  to  do,"  he  mur- 
mured. Then  I  said  in  my  own  mind  :  He  is  an  im- 
measurable   . 

"  Here,  Jem,"  I  cried  to  my  boy.  He  came  over,  and 
whilst  I  held  up  the  mare's  head,  he  gave  her  a  fierce 
kick.     She  was  on  her  feet  in  an  instant. 


INTRODUCTORY  7 

"  Where's  your  man  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said  wonderingly. 

We  found  the  man,  safe  and  sound,  and  fast  asleep 
against  the  hedge. 

"Come  now,"  I  said,  for  I  had  tacitly  assumed  the 
right  to  command  by  reason  of  my  su[)erior  knowledge, 
"  montez  !     You  must  come  with  me  !  " 

"Impossible  !  "  he  said,  "I  must  get  home  to-night." 

"  Very  good.  Now,  do  you  think  that  you  can  get 
home  more  easily  and  expeditiously  in  that  broken  trap 
than  in  mine  ?     Hallo  !  are  you  left-handed  ?  " 

"No,  but  my  right  arm  is  strained  a  little,  just  a 
little." 

I  took  the  liberty  of  lifting  his  hand,  and  a  small, 
soft,  white  hand  it  was.  It  fell  helpless.  Then  I  saw 
that  his  face  was  very  white.  This  showed  he  was  a 
thorough  brick. 

"  Is  the  jar,  —  I  mean  the  arm,  —  broke  ?  "  he  said, 
with  a  smile. 

Then  I  knew  he  was  human.  That  little  flash  of 
humour,  whilst  he  was  suffering  excruciating  pain,  told 
volumes  of  biography.  I  helped  him  up  to  the  seat, 
and,  without  a  word,  I  drove  him  to  his  house. 

Tlie  doctor  called  it  a  compound  comminuted  frac- 
ture of  the  ulna  ;  we  called  it  a  broken  wrist.  But  it 
was  a  bad  business,  and  necessitated  splints  for  at  least 
six  weeks.  I  volunteered  to  say  his  two  Masses  every 
Sunday,  my  own  being  supplied  by  a  kind  neighbour  ; 
and  thus  I  broke  down  the  barriers  of  chill  pride  or 
reserve,  and  saw  the  interior  of  liis  house  and  of  his 
heart. 

The  former  was  plain  almost  to  poverty  :  tlie  latter 
was  rich  to  exuberance.  Four  walls  lintMl  with  books 
from  floor  to  ceiling,  a  carefully  waxed  floor,  one  shred 
of  Indian  carpet,  and  a  writing-desk  and  chair  —  this 
was  his  sitting-room.  F)Ut  the  marble  manteliiiece  was 
decorated  with  a  pair  of  costly  brass  Benares  vases, 
flanked  by  a  pair  of  snake  candlesticks  ;  and  his  writ- 
ing-desk was  of  Shisham  wood,  and  it  perfumed  w  ith  a 


8  LUKE   DELMEGE 

strange,  faint  aroma  the  whole  apartment.  Over  in 
one  corner,  and  facing  tlie  nortliern  light,  was  an  easel ; 
a  painter's  palette  leaned  against  it,  and  on  it  was  a 
half-finished  oil-painting  —  one  of  those  dreamy  sea 
scenes,  where  the  flush  of  the  setting  sun  is  deepening 
into  purple,  and  the  sleeping  sea  is  curled  into  furrows 
of  gold  and  lead.  A  large  three-masted  vessel,  its  naked 
spars  drawn  like  the  scaffolding  of  some  airy  mansion 
against  the  sky,  was  passing  out  into  the  unknown. 
It  was  the  everlasting  enigma  of  futurity  and  fate. 

I  had  no  notion  of  losing  valuable  time.  I  com- 
menced business  the  first  Sunday  evening  we  dined 
together. 

"•  I  am  a  story-teller,"  I  said,  "  and  you  have  a  story 
to  tell  me.  Now,  now,"  I  warned,  as  I  saw  him  make 
a  feeble  gesture  of  protest  and  denial  with  his  left  hand 

—  "  don't  quote  the  Needy  Knife-Grinder,  an'  you  love 
me.  You  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  life,  you  have  felt  a 
great  deal,  you  have  resolved  a  great  deal  ;  and  I  must 
do  you  the  justice  to  say  that  you  have  nobly  kept  your 
resolution  of  retirement  and  seclusion  from  your  species 

—  that  is,  from  brother-clerics.  Here  are  all  the  ele-' 
ments  of  a  first-class  story  —  " 

"  But  I've  never  written  even  a  goody-goody  story," 
he  said.     "I  doubt  if  I  have  the  faculty  of  narration." 

"  Leave  that  to  me,"  I  said.  "  Give  me  naked  facts 
and  experiences,  and  Worth  never  devised  such  fancy 
costumes  as  I  shall  invent  for  them." 

"  But,"  he  protested,  "  why  not  seek  more  interesting 
matter  ?  Here  now,  for  example,  is  an  admirable  book, 
exemplifying  the  eternal  adage  :  '  Human  nature  is  the 
same  the  wide  world  over.'  I  dare  say,  now,  you  thought 
that  Anglican  clergymen  are  moulded  into  such  perfec- 
tion by  university  education,  and  the  better  teaching  of 
social  life,  that  there  is  never  room  for  the  least  eccen- 
tricity amongst  them." 

"  Let  me  be  candid,"  I  replied,  "  and  say  at  once  that 
such  has  been  my  conviction  —  that  at  least  so  far  as 
social   virtues   are  concerned,  and   the   balancing  and 


INTRODUCTORY  9 

measuring  of  daily  social  environments,  tliey  were  beyond 
criticism.  But  have  you  discovered  any  freaks  or  prod- 
igies there  ?  " 

"  What  would  you  think,"  he  replied,  "  of  this  ?  A 
dear  old  rector  driven  to  resign  liis  parish  by  his  curate's 
wife,  against  whom  he  had  foolishly  warned  the  afore- 
said curate  in  the  days  of  his  bachelorship.  She  affected 
to  believe  that  he  was  an  antediluvian,  spoke  to  him 
with  the  sweet  simplicity  of  a  child  at  tennis  parties 
and  five  o'clock  teas  ;  then  discovered  that  once  he  had 
preached  a  borrowed  sermon,  and  ever  afterwards  re- 
monstrated with  him  in  public  on  the  misdemeanour  : 
'  Ah  !  you  dear  old  sly-boots,  when  you  can  preach  so 
beautifully,  why  do  you  give  us  that  wretched  Penny 
Pulpit  so  often  ?  '  " 

"  Look  here  !  "  I  said,  "  that's  a  perfect  mine.  Have 
you  any  more  diamonds  like  that  ?  " 

"  Well,  not  many.  The  mine  is  salted.  But  what 
do  you  think  of  the  good  rector,  who  advertised  for  a 
curate,  married,  but  childless,  to  occupy  the  rectory, 
whilst  the  incumbent  was  off  to  Nice  on  a  holiday  ?  " 

"  Well,  did  he  get  him  ?  " 

''  Rather.  Hut  tlie  ladv  was  a  docf-fancier,  and  brought 
with  her  fourteen  brindled  hulldogs.  That  rectory  and 
its  fjrounds  were  a  desert  for  three  months.  No  livinsr 
being,  postman,  butcher's  boy,  baker's  boy,  dare  show 
his  face  within  the  gates.  Occasionally  there  was  a  big 
row  in  the  menagerie.  The  mistress  alone  could  quell 
it." 

"  How  ? " 

"  Can't  you  guess  ?  " 

"  I  give  it  up,  like  Mr.  Johnston." 

"Well,  a  red-liot  iron,  which  she  kept  always  in  the 
kitchen  fire  for  the  purpose." 

"  Rather  drastic,"  I  said.  "Who  could  liave  thought 
it  in  staid  England?  Verily,  Innnan  nature  is  every- 
where the  same." 

"  Which  proves  ?  "  he  said  questioningly. 

I  waited. 


10  LUKE   DELMEGE 

"  Which  proves,"  he  continued,  "that  there  is  nothing 
half  so  absurd  as  to  deduce  general  sweeping  proposi- 
tions about  nations  and  races  from  very  slender  premises. 
The  world  is  full  of  strange  faces  and  strange  charac- 
ters." 

Then  I  knew  he  was  coming  around.  And  he  did. 
Poor  fellow  !  he  had  to  take  to  bed  a  few  days  after, 
for  the  pain  was  intense  and  the  weather  was  moist.  I 
had  great  doubts  whether  our  local  physician  was  treat- 
ing that  dangerous  wound  scientifically,  and  I  proposed 
a  few  times  to  call  in  some  leading  surgeon  from  the 
city.  The  medical  attendant  indeed  assented,  and  I  saw 
he  looked  alarmed.     But  my  poor  friend  declined. 

"  It  will  be  all  right,"  he  said,  "  and  after  all  it  is  but 
a  weary  world.  Oh  !  to  slee^D  and  be  at  rest  forever  : 
to  know  nothing  of  the  weariness  of  getting  up  and 
lying  down,  and  the  necessities  of  this  poor  body,  its 
eating  and  drinking,  and  being  clothed  ;  to  be  free  from 
the  eternal  vexations  of  men,  their  vanity,  and  folly,  and 
pride.  I  shall  dread  to  meet  them  even  in  Heaven. 
'  Look  for  me,  my  dear  friend,'  as  a  good  poet  has  said, 
'in  the  nurseries  of  Heaven.'  " 

Then  my  heart  went  out  to  him,  for  I  saw  his  had 
been  a  troubled  life,  and  day  by  day  I  sat  by  his  bedside, 
whilst  partly  as  an  anodyne  to  pain,  partly  to  please  me, 
he  went  over  the  details  of  his  life.  Then,  one  day,  I 
hinted  that  his  life  had  been  a  carriere  manquee^  and 
that  he  was  a  soured  and  disappointed  man.  He  raised 
himself  on  his  left  arm,  and  looked  at  me  long  and  wist- 
fully. A  slight  discoloration  had  appeared  above  the 
fractured  wrist.      He  pointed  to  it. 

"  That  is  the  black  flag  of  death,"  he  said.  "  You  will 
find  my  will  in  the  lower  locked  drawer  of  my  writing- 
desk.  I  have  left  all  to  sick  and  poor  children.  But 
you  are  wrong.  I  am  not  soured,  or  deceived,  or  disap- 
pointed. I  have  a  grateful  heart  to  God  and  man.  I 
have  not  had  an  unhappy  life.  Indeed,  I  have  had  more 
than  my  share  of  its  blessings.  But,  my  friend,"  he  said 
earnestly,  "  I  am  a  puzzled  man.     The  enigma  of  life 


INTRODUCTORY  11 

t 
has  been  always  too  much  for  me.    You  will  have  guessed 
as  much  from  all  that  I  have  told  you.     I  seek  the  solu- 
tion in  eternity  of  the  awful  riddle  of  life." 

He  fell  back  in  great  pain,  and  I  forgot  my  calling 
as  interviewer  in  my  sympathy  as  friend.  Dear  Lord  ! 
and  the  world  called  this  man  proud. 

"Now,"  I  said,  "you  are  despondent.  Your  accident 
and  this  confinement    have  weighed    on    your   nerves. 

You  must  let  me  send  for  Dr.  S .     I'll  telegraph  to 

the  bishop,  and  he'll  put  you  under  obedience." 

He  smiled  faintly. 

"  No  use,"  he  said,  "  this  is  septicccmia.  I  have  prob- 
ably forty-eight  hours  to  live.  Then,  Rest  !  Rest!  Rest! 
It's  a  strange  thing  to  be  tired  of  life  when  I  had  every- 
thing that  man  could  desire.  This  pretty  rural  parish ; 
a  fair  competence  ;  churches  and  schools  perfect  ;  and," 
he  gave  a  little  laugh,  "no  curate.  Yet,  I  am  tired, 
tired  as  a  child  after  a  hot  summer  day  ;  and  tired  of  a 
foolish  whim  to  reconcile  the  irreconcilable." 

"  And  why  not  give  up  this  brain-racking,"  I  said, 
"  and  live  ?  Nothing  solves  riddles  but  work,  and  stead- 
ily ignoring  them.  Why,  we'd  all  go  mad  if  we  were 
like  you." 

"True,"  he  said  feebly,  "true,  m}^  friend.  But,  you 
see,  habits  are  tyrants,  and  I  commenced  badly.  I  was 
rather  innocent,  and  I  wanted  to  dovetail  professions 
and  actions,  principle  and  interest  (forgive  the  sorry 
pun),  that  which  ought  to  be,  and  that  which  is.  It  was 
rather  late  in  life  wdien  I  discovered  tlie  utter  ini[)racti- 
cabihty  of  such  a  process.  Life  was  a  Chinese  [)uzzk'. 
Then,  too  late,  I  tiung  aside  all  the  enigmas  of  life,  and 
flung  myself  on  the  bosom  of  the  great  mystery  of  God, 
and  there  sought  rest.  But,  beliind  the  veil!  Behind 
the  veil  !     There  only  is  the  solution." 

He  remained  a  long  time  in  a  reverie,  staring  up  at 
the  ceiling.     I  noticed  a  faint  odour  in  the  air. 

"  You  know,"  he  said  at  length,  "  I  was  not  loved  by 
the  brethren.  ^Vhy  ?  Did  I  dislike  them  ?  No!  God 
forbid  1       I    liked    and    loved    everything    that    God 


12  LUKE  DELMEGE 

created.  But  I  was  unhappy.  Their  ways  puzzled  me, 
and  I  was  silent.  There  was  nothing  sincere  or  open 
in  the  world  but  the  faces  of  little  children.  God  bless 
them  !  They  are  a  direct  revelation  from  Heaven. 
Then,  you  will  notice  that  there  is  not  a  single  modern 
book  in  my  library.  Why  ?  Because  all  modern  litera- 
ture is  lies  !  lies  !  lies  !  And  such  painful  lies  !  Why 
will  novelists  increase  and  aggravate  the  burdens  of  the 
race  by  such  painful  analyses  of  human  character  and 
action  ?  " 

"  Now,  now,"  I  said,  "you  are  morbid.  Why,  half 
tlie  pleasures  of  life  come  from  works  of  imagination 
and  poetry." 

"  True.  But,  why  are  they  always  so  painful  and 
so  untrue  ?  Do  you  think  that  any  one  would  read 
a  novel,  if  it  were  not  about  something  painful  ?  — 
and  the  more  painful,  the  more  entrancing.  Men 
revel  in  creating  and  feeling  pain.  Here  is  another 
puzzle." 

It  was  so  sad,  this  gentle,  pitiful  life  drawing  to  a 
close,  and  without  a  farewell  word  of  hope  to  the 
world  it  was  leaving,  that  I  had  neither  comment  nor 
consolation  to  offer.  It  was  so  unlike  all  my  daily 
experiences  that  I  was  silent  with  pity  and  surprise. 
He  interrupted  me. 

"Now  for  the  great  wind-up.  To-morrow  morning 
you  will  come  over  early  and  administer  the  last  Sacra- 
ments. When  I  am  dead,  you  will  coffin  my  poor 
remains  immediately,  for  I  shall  be  discoloured  sadly 
and  shall  rapidly  decompose.  And  you  know  we  must 
not  give  our  poor  people  the  faintest  shock.  I  wish  to 
be  buried  in  my  little  church,  right  under  the  statue  of 
our  Blessed  Lady,  and  within  sound  of  the  Mass. 
There  I  spent  my  happiest  hours  on  earth.  And  I 
shall  not  rest  in  peace  anywhere  but  where  ,  I  can  hear 
the  Mass-bell.  You  think  I  am  wandering  in  my  mind  ? 
No.  I  am  quite  collected.  I  often  debated  with  my- 
self whether  I  should  not  like  to  be  buried  outside, 
where  I  should  hear  the  people  walking  over  my  grave. 


INTRODUCTORY  13 

But  no  !  I  have  decided  to  remain  where  the  Divine 
Mother  will  look  down  with  her  pitying  eyes  on  the 
place  where  this  earthly  tabernacle  is  melting  into  dust, 
and  where  the  syllables  of  the  mighty  Mass  will  hover 
and  echo  when  the  church  is  silent  betimes.  And  no 
foolish  epitaph.  'Here  lieth,' and  ' pray  for  his  soul.' 
That's  all." 

He  was  silent  for  a  little  while  ;  but  now  and  again  a 
faint  shudder  showed  me  the  agony  he  was  suffering. 

"I  am  tiring  you,"  he  said  at  length  ;  "but  sometimes 
I  dream  that  in  the  long  summer  twilights,  when  my 
little  village  choir  is  practising,  some  child  may  allow 
her  thoughts,  as  she  is  singing,  to  pass  down  to  where 
the  pastor  is  lying  ;  and  perhaps  some  poor  mother 
may  come  over  to  my  grave,  after  she  has  said  her 
Rosar}-,  and  point  out  to  the  wondering  child  in  her 
arms  the  place  where  the  man  tliat  loved  little  children 
is  lying.  We  are  not  all  forgotten,  though  we  seem  to 
be.     Here,  too,  is  another  puzzle.     I  am  very  tired." 

I  stood  up  and  left  the  room,  vowing  that  I  would 
leave  that  poor  soul  at  rest  forever. 

I  administered  the  last  Sacraments  the  following  day, 
after  I  had  seen  the  doctor.  He  was  much  distressed 
at  the  fatal  turn  things  had  taken.  "  He  had  not  antici- 
pated ;  'twas  a  case  for  hospital  treatment ;  the  weather 
was  so  sultry  ;  he  had  dreaded  amputation,  etc.  No 
hope?     None."     The  patient  was  right. 

And  so  two  days  later,  exactly  as  he  had  anticipated, 
we  were  grouped  around  his  bedside  to  watch  and  help 
])is  last  struggle.  But  even  in  that  supreme  moment, 
his  habitual  equanimity  did  not  desert  him.  Courteous 
to  11.11  around,  apologizing  for  little  troubles,  solicitous 
ivbout  others,  eagerly  looking  forward  to  the  lifting  of 
the  veil,  he  passed  his  last  moments  in  life.  Then  about 
six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  just  as  the  Angelus  ceased 
tolling,  he  cried  :  — 

" 'Tis  the  soul -bell,  the  passing-bell,  is  it  not?" 

"'Tis  the  Angelus,"  I  replied. 

"  Say  it  with  me,  or  rather  for  me,"  he  said.     Then 


14  LUKE   DELMEGE 

a  few  minutes  later :  "  'Tis  growing  very  dark,  and  I 
am  cold.     What  is  it?     I  cannot  understand  —  " 

And  so  he  passed  to  the  revelation. 

An  unusually  large  number  of  the  brethren  gathered 
to  his  obsequies,  which  was  again  very  strange  and  per- 
plexing. He  was  buried  as  he  had  desired,  and  his 
memory  is  fast  vanishing  from  amongst  men ;  but  the 
instincts  of  the  novelist  have  overcome  my  tenderness 
for  that  memory,  and  I  give  his  life-history  and  expe- 
riences.     Am  I  justified  in  doing  so  ?     Time  must  tell. 

I  should,  however,  mention  another  circumstance. 
At  the  obsequies  were  two  old  priests,  one  bent  low 
with  years,  the  other  carrying  the  white  burden  of  his 
winters  more  defiantly.      The  former  asked  me  :  — 

"  Did  Luke  speak  of  me,  or  wish  to  see  me?  " 

I  had  to  say  "  No  !  " 

He  went  away  looking  very  despondent. 

The  other  called  me  aside  and  said  :  — 

"■  Did  Luke  express  no  wish  to  see  me  ?  " 

Now,  I  was  afraid  of  this  man.  He,  too,  was  an 
oddity,  —  a  deep,  profound  scholar  in  subjects  that  are 
not  interesting  to  the  multitude.  He  was  one  of  the 
few  who  knew  Luke  well. 

"  Yes,'"  I  said  ;  "  several  times.  But  he  always  drew 
back,  saying  :  '  Father  Martin  is  old  and  feeble.  I  can- 
not bring  him  such  a  journey  in  such  weather.  Don't 
write  !     It  will  be  nothing.'  " 

"  Did  you  think  that  this  accident  was  a  trifle,  and 
that  there  was  no  danger  of  fatal  issues?" 

I  coughed  a  little  and  said  something. 

"  And  did  you  think  it  was  right,"  he  continued, 
"  that  the  only  friend  he  probably  had  in  the  world  "  — 
here  his  voice  broke  —  "  should  have  been  excluded  from 
his  confidence  at  such  a  momentous  time  ?  " 

"  I  really  had  no  alternative,"  I  replied.  "  I  did  all 
I  could  for  him,  poor  fellow ;  but  you  know  he  was 
peculiar,  and  you  also  know  that  he  was  supersensitive 
about  giving  trouble  to  others." 

'■'•  Quite  so.     But  when  you  saw  danger,  you  should 


INTRODUCTORY  15 

have  summoned  his  friends.  This  is  one  of  those 
thinsfs  one  finds  it  hard  to  condone.  He  has  left  a 
will  and  papers,  1  presume  ? " 

''  Yes,"  I  said  ;   "  1  have  charge  of  all." 

"  Have  you  opened  the  will  ?  " 

"Not  as  yet." 

"Please  do  so,  and  see  who  are  the  executors." 

We  opened  tiie  will  then  and  there,  and  found  that  my 
troublesome  interlocutor,  the  Reverend  Martin  Hughes, 
was  sole  executor.  He  closed  the  will  at  once,  and  said, 
coldly :  — 

"  Now,  wouhl  you  be  pleased  to  hand  over  all  other 
papers  and  conlidential  documents  belonging  to  my 
deceased  friend  ?  You  can  have  no  further  need  of 
them  —  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  said  ;  "  the  good  priest  just 
departed  gave  me  a  good  deal  of  his  confidence.  You 
know  that  I  was  in  hourly  attendance  on  him  for  six 
weeks.  I  asked  him  to  allow  me  tell  the  story  of  his 
life,  and  lie  consented,  and  granted  me  full  permission 
to  examine  and  retain  all  his  letters,  papers,  diaries, 
manuscripts,  for  that  purpose." 

"  That  puts  a  different  complexion  on  things,"  said 
Father  Hughes.  "  You  fellows  are  regular  resurrec- 
tionists. You  cannot  let  the  dead  rest  and  bury  their 
liistories  witli  tliem." 

"But  if  a  life  has  a  lesson?"  I  ventured  to  say, 
humbly. 

"  For  whom  ?  " 

"  For  tlie  survivors  and  the  world." 

"  And  what  are  survivors  and  the  world  to  the 
dead?"  he  asked. 

I  was  silent.  It  would  be  a  tactical  mistake  to  irritate 
this  quaint  i)ld  man.  He  pondered  deeply  for  a  long 
time. 

"  I  have  the  greatest  reluctance,"  he  said,  "  about  con- 
sentinof  to  such  a  thinjT.  I  know  nothing  more  utterlv 
detestable  than  the  manner  in  whieh  the  secrets  of  the 
dead  are  purloined  in  our  most  prurient  generation,  and 


16  LUKE   DELMEGE 

the  poor  relics  of  their  thoughts  and  feelings  scattered 
to  the  dust,  or  exposed  on  the  public  highways  for  the 
ludihrium  of  an  irreverent  public.  And  this  would  be 
bad  enough,  but  we  have  to  face  the  lamentable  fact 
that  it  is  not  the  reality,  but  a  hideous  caricature  of  the 
reality  that  is  presented  to  the  public  —  " 

"  You  can  prevent  that,"  I  said  meekly. 

"  How  ?  " 

"  By  simply  taking  the  matter  into  your  own  hands. 
No  man  knew  Luke  Delmege  half  so  well  as  you  —  " 

"  I'm  too  old  and  feeble  for  all  that,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  let's  strike  a  bargain,"  I  replied.  "  Every 
page  of  this  history  I  shall  submit  to  you  for  revision, 
correction,  or  destruction,  as  seems  fit,  if  you  keep  me  on 
the  right  track  by  giving  me  as  much  light  as  you  can." 

"  It  is  the  only  way  to  avert  an  evil,"  he  replied.  I 
told  him  I  was  complimented. 

And  so,  with  bits  and  scraps  of  frayed  yellow  paper, 
torn  and  tattered  letters,  sermons  half-written,  and 
diaries  badly  kept,  I  have  clothed  in  living  language 
the  skeleton  form  of  this  human  life.  On  the  whole,  I 
feel  I  have  done  it  well,  although  now  and  again  an 
angle  of  the  skeleton  —  some  irregularity  —  will  push 
forward  and  declare  itself.  Sometimes  it  is  an  anachro- 
nism which  I  cannot  account  for,  except  on  the  score  of 
great  charity  on  the  part  of  my  deceased  friend,  who 
seemed  to  have  preferred  that  his  ignorance  should  be 
assumed  rather  than  that  charity  should  be  wounded. 
Sometimes  there  is  a  curious  dislocation  of  places, 
probably  for  the  same  reason.  And  sometimes  I  have 
found  it  difficult  to  draw  the  seams  of  some  rent  to- 
gether, and  to  make  times  and  circumstances  correspond 
with  the  modern  parts  of  our  history.  And  if  "the 
tear  and  smile  "  of  Ireland  alternate  in  those  pages,  it 
is  withal  a  solemn  history ;  and  many,  perhaps,  will 
find  in  it  deeper  meanings  than  we  have  been  able  tc 
interpret  or  convey. 


CHAPTER   II 

THE   ILLUSIONS   OF    YOUTH 

He  was  a  young  man,  a  very  young  man,  otherwise 
he  would  not  have  been  so  elated  when 

Lucas  Delmege^  X ensis, 

was  called  out  for  the  fourth  time,  and  he  had  to  request 
his  diocesans  to  watch  the  huge  pile  of  premiums  he  had 
already  won,  whilst  he  passed  up  the  centre  aisle  of  the 
prayer-hall,  and  his  bishop,  smiling  as  he  raised  another 
sheaf  of  calf-bound  volumes,  handed  them  to  him,  with 
a  wluspered  "  Uptime,  Luca."  And  yet,  if  a  little 
vanity  —  and  it  is  a  gentle  vice  —  is  ever  permissible, 
it  would  have  been  in  his  case.  To  have  led  his  class 
successfully  in  the  halls  of  a  great  ecclesiastical  semi- 
nary ;  to  be  w^atched  envicnisly  by  live  hundred  and  sixty 
fellow-students,  as  he  moved  along  on  his  triumphant 
march  ;  to  have  come  out  victorious  from  a  great  intel- 
lectual struggle,  and  to  receive  this  praise  from  his 
bishop,  who  felt  that  himself  and  his  diocese  were  hon- 
oured by  the  praise  reflected  from  his  young  subject  — 
assuredly,  these  are  things  to  stir  sluggish  pulses,  and 
make  the  face  pallid  with  pleasure.  And  if  all  this 
was  l)ut  the  forecast  of  a  great  career  in  the  Church  ;  if 
it  pointed  with  the  steady  finger  of  an  unerring  fate  to 
the  long  vista  of  life,  strewn  with  roses,  and  with  laurel 
crowns  dropped  by  unseen  hands  from  above,  there 
would  be  all  the  better  reason  for  that  elastic  step,  and 
that  gentle  condescension  which  marked  the  manner  of 
the  successful  student,  when  his  admirers  gathered 
c  17 


18  LUKE   DELMEGE 

around  him,  and  even  his  defeated  rivals  candidly  con- 
gratulated him  upon  his  unprecedented  success.  Yet, 
withal,  he  was  modest.  Just  a  little  spring  in  his  gait ; 
just  a  little  silent  reception  of  adulation,  as  a  something 
due  to  his  commanding  position ;  and  just  a  little  moist- 
ening of  his  eyelids,  as  he  dreamt  of  a  certain  far  home 
down  by  the  sea,  and  the  pride  of  his  mother  as  he  flung 
all  his  treasures  into  her  lap,  and  his  sisters'  kisses  of 
triumph  for  the  beloved  one  —  ah  me  !  who  would  say 
nay  to  this  ?  Let  the  sunshine,  and  the  roses,  and  the 
love  of  thy  loved  ones  play  around  thee,  thou  pale  and 
gentle  Levite,  while  they  may.  Soon  the  disillusion 
will  come,  the  laurels  will  fade,  and  the  sunshine  turn 
to  gray  ashen  shadow,  and  the  tender  and  strong  sup- 
ports of  home  and  love  will  be  kicked  aside  by  Time 
^  and  Fate  ;  but  the  arena  of  life  will  be  ever  before  thee, 
and  every  fresh  triumph  will  be  a  fresh  conflict,  and 
thou  wilt  be  a  friendless  one  and  naked.  But  how 
didst  thou  come  to  believe  that  the  quiet  study  hall  was 
the  world,  and  thou  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes — the  prov- 
erb in  all  mouths  ?  Listen,  dear  child,  for  thou  art  but 
a  child.  The  mighty  world  has  never  heard  of  thee, 
does  not  know  thy  name  ;  the  press  is  silent  about  thee  ; 
the  very  priests  of  thy  diocese  do  not  even  know  of  thy 
existence.  Thou  art  but  a  pin's  point  in  the  universe. 
He  does  not  believe  it.  He  has  been  a  First  of  First,i 
and  the  universe  is  at  his  feet. 

His  first  shock  was  at  the  Broadstone  Terminus  of 
the  Great  Midland  Railway.  A  young  and  unsophisti- 
cated porter  was  so  rustic  and  ignorant  as  to  raise  his 
hat  to  the  young  priest  as  he  leaped  from  the  carriage. 

"Why  did  ye  do  that?"  said  an  older  comrade. 
"  Sure,  thim's  but  collaygians.  They  won't  be  priested 
for  another  year  or  two." 

The  porter  had  not  heard  of  Luke  Delmege,  and  the 
First  of  First. 

He  ran  his  eyes  rapidly  over  the  newspapers  in  the 
restaurant,  where  he  was  taking  a  humble  cup  of  coffee. 
1  First  prizeman  in  his  class. 


THE   ILLUSIONS   OF    YOUTH  19 

There  was  news  from  all  quarters  of  the  globe  —  an 
earthquake  in  Japan,  a  revolution  in  the  Argentine, 
a  row  in  the  French  Chamber  of  Deputies,  a  few 
speeches  in  the  House  of  Commons,  a  wliole  page  and 
a  half  of  sporting  intelligence,  a  special  column  on  a 
fav(mrite  greyhound  named  Ben  Bow^  an  interview  with 
a  famous  jockey,  a  paragrapli  about  a  great  minister  in 
Austria,  gigantic  lists  of  stocks  and  sliares,  a  good  deal 
of  squalor  and  crime  in  the  police  courts,  one  line  about 
a  great  philosopher  who  was  dying — can  it  be  possible  ? 
Not  a  line,  not  a  word  of  yesterday's  triumph  in  the 
academy  !  The  name  of  Luke  Delmege,  First  of  First, 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

Could  he  be,  by  any  possible  chance,  in  the  photogra- 
phers' windoAvs  ?  Alas,  no  !  Here  are  smiling  act- 
resses, babies  in  all  kinds  of  postures  and  with  every 
variety  of  expression,  favourite  pugdogs,  dirty  beasts  of 
every  kind  with  tufts  of  hair  on  their  tails,  fashionable 
beauties,  Portias,  and  Imogens,  and  Cordelias  ;  but  the 
great  athlete  of  yesterday  ? 

And  the  porters  made  no  distinction  between  him 
and  his  fellow-students  as  he  sped  southwards  to  his 
home  ;  a  few  school-girls  stared  at  him  and  passed  on  ; 
commercial  men  glanced  at  him  and  buried  themselves 
in  their  papei'S  ;   a  few  priests  cheerily  said  :  — 

"  Home  for  the  holidays,  boys  ?  " 

But  Luke  Delmege  was  but  a  unit  among  millions, 
and  excited  no  more  notice  than  the  rest. 

lie  could  not  understand  it.  He  liad  always  thought 
and  believed  that  his  college  was  the  Hub  of  the  I'ni- 
verse  ;  and  that  its  prizemen  came  out  into  the  unlet- 
tered world  horned  and  aureoled  with  light  as  from 
a  Holy  Mountain.  Was  not  a  pri/.e  in  his  college 
equivalent  to  a  university  degree  ;  and  was  it  not  sup- 
posed to  shed  a  lambent  light  athwart  the  future  i-areer 
of  the  winner,  no  matter  how  clouded  that  career  might 
be?  Did  he  not  hear  of  men  who  folded  their  arms 
and  leaned  on  their  laurels  for  the  rest  of  their  lives, 
and  were  honoured  and  respected  for  their  boyish  tri- 


2C  LUKE  DELMEGE 

umphs  far  into  withered  and  useless  age  ?  And  here, 
in  the  very  dawn  of  success,  he  was  but  a  student 
amongst  students ;  and  even  these  soon  began  to  drop 
their  hero-worship,  when  they  found  the  great  workl  so 
listless  and  indifferent.  He  is  troubled  and  bewildered  ; 
he  cannot  understand. 

Well,  at  last,  here  is  home,  and  here  is  worship,  and 
here  is  love.  Ay,  indeed  !  The  news  had  gone  on 
before  him.'  Tiie  great  athlete  in  the  greatest  college 
in  the  world  was  coming  home  ;  and  he  was  their  own, 
their  beloved.  It  nearly  compensated  and  consoled  him 
for  all  the  neglect  and  indifference,  when,  on  entering 
beneath  his  own  humble  roof,  where  he  had  learned  all 
the  best  lessons  of  life,  he  found  the  whole  family  pi^os- 
trate  on  their  knees  before  him.  There  was  his  aged 
father.  He  laid  his  newly  consecrated  hands  on  the 
gray  head,  and  pronounced  the  blessing.  He  extended 
his  hands  to  be  kissed,  and  the  rough  lips  almost  bit 
them  in  the  intensity  of  aft'ection  and  love.  The  old 
man  rose  and  went  out,  too  full  of  joy  to  speak.  The 
young  priest  blessed  his  mother  ;  she  kissed  his  hands 
—  the  hands,  every  line  of  which  she  knew  with  more 
than  the  skill  of  palmist.  The  young  priest  stooped 
and  kissed  her  wrinkled  forehead.  He  blessed  his 
brothers,  and  laid  his  hands  on  the  smooth  brows  of  his 
sisters.  Reverently  they  touched  his  palms  with  their 
gentle  lips  ;  and  then,  Margery,  the  youngest,  forget- 
ting everything  but  her  great  love,  flung  her  arms 
around  him,  and  kissed  him  passionately,  crjdng  and 
sobbing  :  '^  Oh  !  Luke  I  Luke  !  "  Well,  this  at  least 
was  worth  working  for.  Then  the  great  trunk  came 
in,  and  the  vast  treasures  were  unlocked,  and  taken  out, 
and  handled  reverently,  and  placed  on  the  few  shelves 
that  had  been  nailed  by  a  rustic  carpenter  in  the  little 
alcove  of  his  bedroom.  There  they  winked  and  blinked 
in  all  their  splendours  of  calf  and  gold  ;  and  Peggy  re- 
fused to  dust  them,  or  touch  them  at  all,  at  all,  for  how 
did  she  know  what  might  be  in  them  ?  They  were  the 
priest's  books,  and  better  have  nothing  to  say  to  them. 


THE  ILLUSIONS   OF   YOUTH  21 

The  priests  are  the  Lord's  anointed,  you  know.  The 
less  we  have  to  say  to  them  the  better  !  But  a  few 
privileged  ones  amongst  the  neighbours  were  allowed  to 
come  in,  and  look  at  these  trophies,  and  offer  the  incense 
of  their  praise  before  the  shrine  of  this  family  idol,  and 
think,  in  their  own  hearts,  whether  any  of  their  little 
flaxen-haired  gossoons  would  ever  reach  to  these  unap- 
proachable altitudes. 

The  aged  curate,  who  had  given  his  Luke  his  First 
Communion,  came  in  later. 

"  Well,  Luke,  old  man,  put  on  the  Melchisedech  at 
last  ?  How  are  you,  and  how  is  every  bit  of  you  ?  You 
look  washed  out,  man,  and  as  '  tin  as  a  lat,'  as  Moll  Brien 
said  when  her  son  came  out  of  jail.  A  few  days'  cours- 
ing on  the  mountains  will  put  new  life  into  you.  The 
two  dogs,  Robin  and  Jiaven,  are  in  prime  condition,  and 
the  mountain  has  not  been  coursed  since  the  great  match 
in  May.  Ah !  these  books  1  these  books  !  Luke's 
prizes,  did  you  say,  ma'am  ?  They're  vampires,  ma'am, 
sucking  the  rich  red  blood  from  his  veins.  Thank  God, 
I  never  bothered  much  about  them  !  Here  they  are,  of 
course  :  Camhrensis  Eversus!  By  Jove  !  I  thought 
that  fellow  was  spun  out  long  since.  Why,  in  my  time, 
thirty  years  ago,  ma'am,  —  time  flies,  —  that  book  was 
declared  out  of  print  ;  and  here  tlie  fellow  turns  up  as 
spruce  as  ever.  A  regular  resurrectionist  !  Well,  it's 
all  the  same.  Nobody  ever  read  him,  or  ever  will. 
O'Kane  on  the  Rubrics  !  A  good  book.  Poor  Jimmy  ! 
The  best  soul  tliat  ever  lived.  Hurrah  !  Murray  on 
the  Church/  Poor— old  — Paddy  !  The  tub  of  theol- 
ogy I      Crolly  de  Contractibus  —  " 

Here  a  dreadful  shudder  shot  through  his  stalwart 
frame. 

'■'•  Now,  look  here,  Luke,  you've  had  enougli  of  these 
fellows.  Come  up  to-morrow  and  dine  with  us.  No 
one  but  Father  Tim  and  one  or  two  of  the  neighbours. 
What  —  " 

"  I've  not  called  on  the  Canon  yet,"  said  Luke,  timidly. 

"  Never  mind  !    I  won't  ask  him.     You  can   call  to- 


22  LUKE  DELMEGE 

morrow.  But  not  too  early,  mind !  Between  four  and 
six.  You  may  be  in  time  for  what  he  calls  '  five  o'clock 
tea.'  Let  me  see!  I'll  say  half-past  four,  so  that  you 
can  have  an  excuse  for  getting  away.  Don't  say  you're 
dining  with  me,  though.  He'd  never  forgive  you.  Any- 
thing but  that." 

He  fell  into  a  fit  of  musing.  There  were  some  troub- 
lous memories  called  u]3. 

"  By  the  way,  what  about  your  first  Mass  ?  "  he  cried, 
waking  up. 

"  I  shall  feel  much  obliged  if  you  will  kindly  assist 
me.  Father  Pat,"  said  Luke. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,  my  boy,"  said  the  curate, 
"  though,  indeed,  very  little  assistance  you'll  require, 
I'm  thinking." 

''  If  I  could  say  my  first  Mass  here  under  my  father's 
roof,"  said  the  young  priest,  timidly. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  said  the  curate.  "  Let  me 
see,  though.  It's  against  the  statutes  of  course,  with- 
out the  I3ishop's  permission;  and  I  don't  know  —  but 
we'll  dispense  with  statutes  on  this  occasion.  Will  you 
take  long?  " 

"  About  half  an  hour,  I  think,"  said  Luke. 

"  Ay,  it  will  be  many  a  day,  your  reverence,  before 
Luke  will  be  able  to  say  Mass  like  you,"  said  Mrs.  Del- 
mege.     "  Sure,  'tis  you  who  don't  keep  us  long  waiting." 

"  No,  indeed  ;  why  should  I?  Do  I  want  ye  to  have 
camels'  knees,  like  the  poor  old  saints  over  there  in 
Egypt?" 

"•  Mike  said  there  was  no  use  trying  to  keep  up  with 
your  reverence.  Though  you  had  the  Latin,  and  I  be- 
lieve there  are  very  hard  words  in  the  Latin,  and  we 
had  the  English,  you  bate  us  intirely." 

"  Look  at  that  for  you,  now,"  said  Father  Pat,  looking 
around  admiringly. 

"  Thin,  the  last  time  he  wint  to  Cork  with  the  butter, 
he  bought  the  weeshiest  little  prayer  book  j^ou  ever  saw. 
'Twas  about  half  a  finger  long,  and  the  print  was  mighty 
big.     '  I  have  him  now,'  sez  he ;   '  'tis  a  quare  story  if  I 


THE  ILLUSIONS   OF   YOUTH  23 

don't  lave  him  behind.'  Troth,  and  yer  reverence,  ye 
were  at  the  Be  Profundis  before  he  got  to  the  Father 
Nosther" 

"  Well,  you  see,  ma'am,  that's  what  comes  from  long 
practice.  But  I  make  it  up  in  the  preaching,  you 
know,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 

"  Troth,  an'  ye  do,"  said  Mrs.  Delmege,  "  'tisn't  much, 
but  what  ye  says  comes  from  the  heart." 

"There  now,  Luke,  there's  a  critic  for  you.  Look 
sharp,  old  man  ;  but  I  forgot.  You  are  going  abroad. 
Happy  fellow !  'Tis  only  in  Ireland  you  come  in  for 
sharp  hits.  Well,  don't  forget  to-morrow.  Half-past 
four  ;  not  a  moment  later.  I'm  a  model  of  punctuality. 
Good-day,  ma'am ;  oh  !  by  Jove !  I  was  forgetting. 
Give  us  your  blessing,  my  poor  man.  Isn't  there  some 
kind  of  indulgence  attached?" 

He  bent  his  head  reverently  as  he  knelt  and  received 
the  benediction. 

"  There,  that  will  do  me  some  good,  whatever,  and  I 
want  it." 

"  The  best  poor  priest  within  the  says  of  Ireland,"  said 
Mrs.  Delmege,  wi})ing  her  eyes,  as  the  curate  strode 
down  tlie  little  footpatli,  and  leaped  lightly  over  the 
stile. 

But  though  Luke  echoed  his  mother's  kind  words, 
deep  down  in  his  heart  there  was  a  jarring  note  some- 
where. What  was  it?  That  expression,  "put  on  the 
jNIelchisedech"  ?  Well,  after  all,  it  was  a  i)retty  usual 
colloquialism,  and  meant  no  irreverence.  Then,  saying 
Mass  in  a  private  house  without  episcopal  sanction? 
How  did  that  statute  bind?  Was  it  siih  gravi?  Luke 
shuddered  at  the  tli<)U<jfht  of  celebratiiifr  under  such  cir- 
cumstances.  He  would  Avrite  that  evening  to  the  curate, 
and  put  off  his  ]Mass  till  Sunday.  There  was  something 
called  JEpikeia,  of  course,  but  —  he  was  perplexed.  Then, 
that  awful  rapidity  in  cck'l)rating  I  Tlic  ))copk'  noticed 
it  and  were  shocked.  But,  after  all,  they  liked  it,  and 
was  there  not  something  in  the  rubrics  al)out  the  pro- 
priety of  not  keeping  the  people  waiting?     Who  was 


24  LUKE   DELMEGE 

he  that  he  should  judge  his  superior  —  a  man  of  thirty 
years'  standing  on  the  mission?  Then  it  dawned  on 
his  perplexed  and  puzzled  mind  that  Father  Casey  had 
not  even  once  alluded  to  the  high  places  that  had  fallen 
to  the  lot  of  the  happy  student  in  his  college.  He 
had  spoken  to  him  as  to  an  ordinary  student,  affection- 
ately, but  without  a  note  of  admiration.  Had  he  not 
heard  it  ?  Of  course  he  had.  And  yet,  never  an  allu- 
sion to  the  First  of  First,  even  in  the  mother's  presence! 
What  was  it?  Forgetfulness?  No.  He  had  seen  the 
prizes  and  made  little  of  them.  Could  it  be  that,  after 
all,  he  had  been  living  in  a  fool's  paradise,  and  that  the 
great  world  thought  nothing  of  these  academic  triumphs 
that  were  pursued  and  won  at  such  tremendous  cost? 
The  thought  was  too  dreadful.  The  Canon  will  think 
differently.  He  is  a  highly  polished  and  cultured  man. 
He  will  appreciate  distinction  and  academical  success. 
And  poor  Luke  felt  irritated,  annoyed,  distressed,  per- 
plexed. It  was  all  so  very  unlike  what  he  had  antici- 
pated. He  had  not  read  :  "  For  there  shall  be  no 
remembrance  of  the  wise  no  more  than  of  the  fool  for- 
ever." 

The  next  day  Luke  paid  a  formal  visit  to  his  pastor. 
He  had  an  old  dread  of  that  parochial  house  —  a  shrink- 
ing and  tingling  of  the  nerves  when  he  opened  the  gate 
and  crossed  the  well-trimmed  lawn,  and  knocked  ner- 
vously with  that  polished  knob,  which  sounded  alto- 
gether too  loud  for  his  tastes.  It  was  an  old  feeling, 
implanted  in  childhood,  and  which  intensified  as  the 
years  went  by.  Custom  had  not  modified  it  nor  habit 
soothed  it ;  and  as  Luke  crossed  the  lawn  at  four  o'clock 
this  warm  July  day,  he  wished  heartily  that  this  visit 
was  over.  He  had  often  striven  in  his  leisure  moments 
in  college  to  analyze  the  feeling,  but  without  success. 
He  had  often,  as  he  advanced  in  his  collegiate  course, 
and  had  begun  to  feel  a  certain  self-reliance,  tried  to 
gather  his  nerves  together,  and  face  with  coolness  this 
annual  ordeal.  It  was  no  use  ;  and  when  the  servant 
appeared  in  answer  to  his  knock,  and  announced  that  the 


THE   ILLUSIONS   OF   YOUTH  25 

Canon  was  in  his  library,  his  heart  sank  down,  and  he 
paced  the  beautiful  drawing-room  in  a  nervous  and 
unhappy  condition.  Now,  this  was  unreasonable  and 
unintelligible.  Alas  !  it  was  one  of  the  many  enigmas 
in  his  own  soul,  and  in  the  vast  universe  outside,  that 
he  was  perpetually  striving  to  solve. 

Here  was  a  man  of  advanced  years,  of  most  blameless 
life,  of  calm,  polished  manner  ;  a  man  who  gave  largely 
to  public  charities,  and  who,  as  an  ecclesiastic,  was  an 
ornament  to  the  Church  ;  and  yet  men  shrank  from 
him  ;  and  like  an  iceberg  loosened  by  the  Gulf  Stream, 
he  created  around  him,  wherever  he  went,  an  atmos- 
phere of  chilliness  and  frigidity  that  almost  isolated 
him  from  his  fellow-men.  What  was  it  ?  He  was  a 
formalist  that  could  not  be  laughed  at ;  a  perfected  and 
symmetrical  character  where  tlie  curious  and  irreverent 
could  place  no  flaw  ;  the  arbiter  elegantiarum  to  his 
diocese ;  and  the  frigid  censor  of  the  least  departure 
from  the  Persian  laws  of  politeness  and  good  deport- 
ment. If  he  had  only  had  the  good  fortune  to  be 
laughed  at,  it  would  have  saved  him.  If  men  could 
make  a  joke  about  him,  they  would  have  loved  him. 
But  no  !  Stately  and  dignified  and  chill,  there  was  no 
such  thing  as  presuming  on  such  a  lofty  character  ;  and 
there  he  was,  his  forehead  in  the  clouds  and  his  face 
above  the  line  of  perpetual  snow. 

Luke  sat  timidly  in  a  dainty  chair,  with  its  wood- 
Avork  inlaid  with  mother-of-pearl.  He  would  have  liked 
to  sink  into  the  easy  depths  of  that  voluptuous  arm- 
chair ;  but  he  tliought  it  would  seem  too  familiar. 
How  often,  in  later  life,  he  thought  of  his  nervousness 
and  reverence,  when  a  young  student  called  on  him,  and 
flung  himself  carelessly  on  a  sofa,  and  crossed  his  legs 
nonclialantly  !  Which  was  better — his  own  gentle  awe 
and  deep-seated  reverence  for  authority  and  age  and 
dignity,  or  the  possible  irreverence  of  after  years  ? 
Well,  this,  too,  was  a  puzzle. 

Luke  lifted  uj)  his  eyes.  They  fell  on  the  portrait  of 
a  beautiful  woman  ;  a  fair,  oval  face,  with  an  expression 


26  LUKE   DELMEGE 

of  infinite  sadness  upon  it.  It  attracted  him,  fascinated 
him.  It  was  one  of  the  numberless  copies  of  the  Cenci 
portrait  that  third-class  artists  turn  out  in  Rome.  It 
was  believed  by  the  Canon  to  be  the  original.  When 
better  informed  in  later  years,  Luke  tried  to  undeceive 
the  Canon,  it  was  one  of  the  many  things  that  were  not 
forgiven.  But  now  he  turned  his  eyes  rapidly  away 
from  the  beautiful  face.  He  was  in  the  first  flush  of  his 
ordination.  It  was  not  right.  It  was  sinful.  His  eyes 
rested  on  a  glorious  picture  of  the  Divine  Mother,  that 
hung  over  the  mantelpiece  in  the  place  of  honour. 
Luke  went  into  raptures  over  it,  studied  it,  gazed  on  it, 
and  every  throb  of  pleasure  was  a  prayer.  Just  then, 
a  bevy  of  artificial  birds,  in  a  glass  case  beneath,  began 
to  flutter  and  chirp,  and  a  deep  gong  tolled  out  musi- 
cally the  quarter.  The  door  softly  opened,  and  the 
Canon  entered  the  room.  He  was  a  tall  man,  about 
sixty-five  years  of  age,  but  remarkably  well  preserved. 
His  hair  was  white,  not  silvery  white,  but  flaxen-white,  a 
curious  and  unpleasant  shade  of  yellow  running  through 
it.  He  was  clad  in  a  soutane,  such  as  canons  wear,  and 
which  set  off  well  his  fine  stately  figure.  His  face,  a 
strong,  massive  one,  had  an  appearance  of  habitual  equa- 
nimity that  was  rather  acquired  by  strong  self-disci- 
pline than  natural.  He  spoke  softly,  and  when  he  sat 
down  he  arranged  his  cassock  so  that  the  silver  buckles 
on  his  shoes  could  be  seen.  A  subtle,  indefinable  aroma 
exhaled  from  his  garments.  Luke  remembered  it  well. 
It  was  one  of  those  mnemonic  associations  from  child- 
hood that  never  fade. 

"Sit  down.  I'm  very  happy  to  see  you,  Mr.  Del- 
mege,"  he  said. 

H  he  had  only  said  "  Luke  "  or  "  Father  "  Delmege, 
Luke  would  have  worshipped  him.  The  icy  "  Mista  " 
froze  him. 

"  Thank  you,  Canon,"  he  said. 

"  I  understand  you  have  been  ordained  ?  Yes  ! 
That  must  be  a  great  consolation  to  your  —  excellent 
parents. " 


THE   ILLUSIONS   OF   YOUTH  27 

"Yes.  They  are  very  happy,"  said  Luke.  "If  I 
might  presume  to  ask  such  a  favour,  it  would  make 
them  doubly  happier  if  I  could  say  my  first  Mass  in 
my  own  —  in  my  —  in  their  house." 

"Impossible,"  replied  the  Canon,  blandly,  "quite 
impossible,  I  assure  you,  my  —  ah  —  dear  Mr.  Del- 
mege.  There  is  an  —  ah  —  episcojjal  regulation  for- 
bidding it;  and  the  Bishop,  unhappily  —  ah  —  and 
unadvisedly,  I  presume  to  think,  has  —  ah  —  restricted 
permission  to  say  such  Masses  to  himself.  I'm  not  — 
ah  —  at  all  sure  that  this  is  not  a  —  canonical  infringe- 
ment on  parochial  —  ah  —  privileges  ;  but  we  must  not 
discuss  the  subject.     You  are  —  ah — very  young  !  " 

The  Canon  seemed  hurt,  and  Luke  was  silent. 

"You  have  had  —  I  hope,"  said  the  former,  at  length, 
"a  fairly  respectable  career  in  College." 

Infandum!  this  man  had  never  heard  of  the  First  of 
First !     Luke  was  nettled. 

"  P'airly,"  he  said  laconically.  The  Canon  noticed 
his  mortification. 

"Now  tliat  I  remem])cr,  I  heard  some  one  —  could  it 
have  been  my  curate?  —  say  that  you  were  doing 
fairly  well.     Indeed,  I  think  he  said  remarkably  well." 

"  i  took  '  First  of  First '  in  Theology,  Scripture,  and 
Canon  T^aw,  and  Second  of  First  in  Hebrew,"  said 
Luke,  now  thoroughly  aroused  by  sucli  indifference  ; 
"  and  I'd  have  swept  the  First  of  First  in  Hebrew 
also  —  " 

"Dear  me!  liow  very  interesting,"  said  tlie  Canon, 
"  how  very  interesting  !  I  liope  it  is  the  prelude  to  a 
—  to  a  —  very  respectable  career  in  the  Church  I  " 

'■'■  I  hope  so,"  said  Luke,  despondently.  Alas !  he 
had  been  taught  that  it  was  not  the  prelude,  but  the 
final  and  ultimate  climax  of  all  human  distinction. 
The  Canon  continued  :  — 

"  If  you  continue  your  studies,  as  every  young  priest 
should,  and  try  to  acquire  ease  and  a  proper  deportment 
of  manner,  and  if  your  life  is  otherwise  —  ah  —  correct 
and  —  ah  —  respectable,    you    may,    in    the    course   of 


i 


28  LUKE   DELMEGE 

years,  attain  to  the  honours  and  —  ah  —  emoluments  of 
the  ministry.  You  may  even  in  your  old  age,  —  that 
is,  supposing  an  irreproachable  and  respectable  career, 
—  you  may  even  attain  to  —  ah  —  the  dignity  of  being 
incorporated  into  the  —  ah  —  Chapter  of  your  native 
diocese." 

"  I  could  never  think  of  reaching  such  an  elevation," 
said  Luke,  humbly. 

"  Oh  !  well,"  said  the  Canon,  reassuringly,  "  you  may, 
you  may.  It  means,  of  course,  years  and  well-estab- 
lished respectability  ;  but  it  will  all  come,  it  will  all 
eorae." 

Luke  thought  that  time  M^as  no  more,  and  that  his 
purgatory  had  begun  when  those  blessed  birds  shook 
out  their  feathers  and  chirped,  and  the  deep  gong 
tolled  out  musically  the  lialf-hour. 

Tlie  Canon  rose  and  said  •  — 

"  Could  you  join  us  in  a  cup  of  tea,  Mr.  Delmege  ? 
We  are  —  ah  —  rather  early  to-day,  as  we  shall  have  a 
drive  before  dinner.  No  ?  Well,  good-day  !  Fm 
most  happy  to  have  seen  you.      Good-day  !  " 

Luke  was  stepping  lightly  down  the  gravelled  walk, 
thankful  for  liaving  got  off  so  easily,  when  he  was  called 
back.     His  heart  sank. 

"Perhaps,  Mr.  Delmege,"  said  the  Canon,  blandly, 
"  you  would  do  us  the  favour  of  dining  with  us  at  half- 
past  six  on  Sunday  ?  It's  rather  early,  indeed ;  but  it's 
only  a  family  party.'' 

Luke  rapidly  ran  over  in  his  mind  every  possible 
excuse  for  absenting  himself,  but  in  vain  ! 

"  I  shall  be  most  happy,  sir,"  he  said ;  "  the  hour  will 
suit  me  admirably." 

Ah,  Luke,  Luke  ! 


CHAPTER   III 

THE  SAGACITIES  OF   AGE 

As  the  young  priest  made  his  way  hastily  across  the 
fields,  .already  yellowing  to  the  harvest,  he  became  aware 
of  a  deep  feeling  of  despondency  glooming  down  upon 
him,  although  he  was  in  the  high  zenith  of  youth,  with 
all  its  prophetic  pi'omise,  and  the  heavens  were  clear 
above  his  head.  That  engagement  to  dine  Avas  an  ugly 
ordeal  to  be  encountered ;  but,  after  all,  what  did  he 
care  ?  It  was  a  couple  of  hours'  agony,  that  was  all. 
What  then  ?  Where  did  all  this  dismal  anxiety  and  fore- 
boding come  from  ?  He  was  fond,  as  has  been  said,  of 
analyzing  —  a  dangerous  habit ;  and  now,  under  the  hot 
sun,  he  was  striving  to  reconcile  two  or  three  things, 
the  mystery  of  wliich  the  world  has  already  declared  to 
be  insoluble.  "A  respectable  career,"  "-honours  and 
emoluments,"  "  a  stall  in  the  Cathedral  ;  "  tliese  word? 
jarred  across  the  vibrant  emotions  of  the  young  priest, 
and  made  him  almost  sick  witli  their  dismal  and  hollow 
sounds.  Good  heavens  !  was  this  the  end  of  all  —  all 
the  heaven-sent  aspirations,  all  the  noble  determinations, 
all  the  consecrated  ideals  that  had  peopled  lieart  and 
mind  only  a  week  ago,  when  the  oil  was  wet  on  his 
hands,  and  he  treinl)l('(l  as  lie  touched  for  the  first  time 
the  chalice  of  the  Jilood  of  Christ?  How  paltry  every 
human  ambition  seemed  then  ;  how  ragged  the  tinsel 
of  kings;  how  cheap  and  worthless  the  pinchbeck  of 
earthly  thrones  !  How  his  soul  burned  to  emulate  the 
heroism  of  saints  —  to  go  abroad  and  be  forgotten  by 
the  world,  and  to  be  remembered  only  by  Clirist  — 
to  live  and  die  amongst  the  lepers  and  the  insane  — 

29 


30  LUKE   DELMEGE 

to  pass,  with  one  swift  stroke  of  the  dull  sword  of  the 
executioner  in  China  or  Japan,  to  his  immortal  crown  ! 
Why,  it  was  only  the  prayers  of  his  aged  mother  made 
him  tear  up  that  letter  he  had  written  to  the  Bishop  of 
Natal,  asking  as  a  favour  to  be  deputed  as  chaplain  in 
Robbin  Island,  where  the  outcasts  and  refuse  of  human- 
ity were  located,  so  that  his  life  might  be  from  start  to 
finish  one  glorious  holocaust  in  the  sight  of  God  !  And 
now  there  remains,  after  all  the  glory,  the  gray  ashes  of 
a  "respectable  career,"  —  a  comfortable  home,  honours 
and  emoluments,  and,  as  a  crown  of  old  age,  a  par- 
ish and  a  prebend  !  What  an  anticlimax  !  Luke 
groaned  and  took  off  his  hat,  and  wiped  the  hot  per- 
spiration from  his  forehead. 

But  a  sharper  sting  was  behind.  If  all  this  was  a 
shock  and  a  surprise,  what  was  he  to  think  of  all  his 
ambitious  labours  for  the  last  six  years  ?  Had  he  one 
single  idea  before  his  mind  but  self-advancement,  glor}-, 
the  praise  of  men,  the  applause  of  his  fellow-students, 
except  on  that  holy  morning  when  the  intoxication  of 
divine  dreams  and  hopes  lifted  him  on  the  highest  alti- 
tudes of  the  Holy  Mount  ?  And  he  said  to  his  soul 
amidst  its  sobbing  and  tears:  "  Unam  jietii  a  Domino: 
hmic  reqidram :  ut  inliahitem  in  domo  Domini  omnibus 
iiehus  vitae  7neae.  Ut  videam  voluptatem  Domini,  et  vis- 
item  templum  ejus.  Impinguasti  in  oleo  cajyut  meum :  et 
calix  mens  inebrians  quam  praeclarus  est!  " 

Now,  which  was  right  —  the  tacit  denial  by  men  of 
the  sublime  doctrine  of  self-annihilation  and  love  of 
lowly  things  and  places,  and,  by  consequence,  their  gos- 
pel of  self-advancement  preached  from  the  house  tops  ; 
or  that  sudden  breath  of  the  Holy  Spirit  —  that  afflatus 
spiced  with  sanctity  and  sorrow  —  that  momentary  in- 
toxication, which  has  come  but  once  or  twice  to  saints 
and  heroes,  and  in  which  they  have  spurned  with  holy 
contempt  all  that  this  earth  holds  dear  ?  Which  was 
right  ?  It  was  the  enigma  of  life,  the  antithesis  of  prin- 
ciple and  practice.  He  saw,  as  in  a  vision,  all  the  vast 
corollaries  and  scholia,  that  stretched  away  into  the  per- 


G 


I 


THE   SAGACITIES    OF   AGE  31 

spective  of  time,  from  one  principle  or  another ;  he  saw 
himself  branded  as  a  madman  or  a  fanatic  if  he  em- 
braced the  one,  and  scheduled  in  the  markets  of  the 
world  as  a  respectable  and  honoured  clergyman  if  he 
selected  the  other ;  here  was  pain,  disease,  dishonour ; 
and  here  was  peace,  dignity,  health,  and  wealth.  He 
knew  well  whither  the  Divine  Hand,  palm-wounded, 
blood-stricken,  pointed  ;  but  who  am  I,  he  said,  to  set 
my  opinion  before  the  whole  world  ?  I  am  a  conceited 
fool  to  think  that  these  diseased  and  morbid  thoughts, 
that  spring  from  an  overstrained  mind  and  irritable 
nerves,  are  to  l)e  assumed  in  preference  to  the  calm  and 
almost  vniiversal  habitudes  of  mankind.  I  shall  say  to 
my  soul  :  Sleep  tliee  now,  and  rest.  Let  the  future 
solve  its  own  enigmas. 

But  then  came  back  with  trebled  force  the  shame  he 
felt  Avhen  his  okl  pastor  put  bluntly  before  him  these 
dreams  of  advancement  and  ambition  ;  and  he  just  re- 
mend)ered  that  morning  having  read  some  strange  things 
in  his  book  of  meditations.  It  was  the  articuh\te  ren- 
dering of  all  the  Sjnrit  had  been  saying.  Who  now 
was  right?  This  old  man  in  the  nineteenth  century, 
or  this  strange,  unnamed,  unknown  monk,  who  was 
calling  to  him  across  six  centuries  of  time  ?  The  world 
was  grown  wise.  AVas  it  ?  Circumstances  change 
principles.  Do  they?  It  was  all  very  well  in  tlie 
Dark  Ages,  but  this  is  the  light-illumined  nineteenth 
century.  Indeed  ?  We  are  not  to  go  back  to  medise- 
valism  for  our  philosophy  of  life,  when  we  have  ever  so 
many  new  systems  of  our  own  ;  and  our  Ilhtmhiati  know 
a  little  more  than  your  cowled  monks  with  their  samlals 
and  bog- Latin. 

"Not  in  vain  tlie  distant  beacons,  forward,  forward  let  us  range: 
Let  the  great  world  spin  forever   down  the  ringing  grooves  of 
change." 

Quite  so.  The  "ringing  grooves  of  change."  Are  we 
going  back  to  manuscripts  Avhen  we  have  })rint?  Back 
to  coaches  when  we  have  steam  ?     Back  to  monasteries 


32  LUKE   DELMEGE 

when  we  have  hotels  ?  Back  to  mortification,  dishon. 
our,  forgetfulness,  the  Innominati  of  the  cell  and  the 
tomb  ? 

The  hoarse  wash  of  the  Atlantic  surges  came  mourn- 
full}'  to  his  ears,  there  in  the  brilliant  sunshine  ;  and  as 
he  turned  away  from  his  reverie  and  the  sight  of  the 
restless  but  changeless  ocean,  he  thought  he  heard  the 
rebuke  upborne  —  Be  ashamed,  0  Sidon,  said  the  sea. 

"Begor,  I  thought  you  were  petrified  into  a  stone 
statue,  Luke,"  said  the  voice  of  the  good-natured  cu- 
rate. "  I  have  been  watching  you,  and  whistling  at  you 
for  the  last  half-hour  ;  but  I  might  as  well  be  whistling 
to  a  milestone,  and  my  breath  is  not  now  so  strong 
either.  '  The  Canon  has  turned  him  into  ice,'  I  said  to 
myself,  'he's  a  regular  patented  refrigerator,  even  on 
this  awful  day.'  Phew !  there's  no  living  at  all  this 
weather.  Come  along.  The  Murphies  are  waiting; 
and  so  are  two  of  the  hungriest  fellows  you  ever  saw. 
But  are  you  really  alive  ?     Let  me  feel  you." 

So  they  passed  into  the  humble  parlour  of  the  aged 
curate  ;  and,  as  Luke  sank  wearily  into  a  horsehair  arm- 
chair, very  much  the  worse  for  the  wear,  dinner  was 
ordered  by  a  few  robust  knocks  on  the  kitchen  wall. 

"  Comin',"  said  a  far-away  voice,  like  that  of  a  ven- 
triloquist. 

"  You  know  Father  Tim,  Luke  ?  And  this  is  my  old 
friend,  Martin  Hughes,  the  greatest  rascal  from  this  to 
Cape  Clear.  Come  along  now,  boys,  we're  late,  you 
know.  Bless  us,  O  Lord,  Amen.  You'll  take  the  liver 
wing,  Luke.  You've  a  good  right  to  it.  They're  your 
own.     Ah!  you've  the  good  mother." 

"And  I  venture  to  say,"  said  Father  Tim,  digging 
the  carver  with  his  left  hand  into  the  juicy  recesses  of  j 

the  ham,  "  that  this  fellow  came  from  the  same  quarter.  ' 

Ah  !  this  is  a  parish  where  men  buy  nothing  but  a  scrap 
of  butcher's  meat." 

"  I  suppose  you've  got  your  eye  on  it,  Tim.  You've 
no  chance,  my  dear  fellow.  Read  up  Valuy  and  Lord 
Chesterfield's  Letters  and  the  Manual  of  Etiquette.    You 


THE   SAGACITIES   OF   AGE  33 

ft 

unmannerly  fellow,  what  a  chance  you  have  of  upsetting 
a  polite  young  man  like  me.  Take  the  potatoes  over 
there  to  Father  Delmege,  Mary.  I  suppose  now  you're 
tired  of  the  Queen's  mutton  ?  And  you  tell  me  they 
don't  give  the  students  beer  now  ?  Well,  that's  bad. 
What'U  you  take  now  ?  Try  that  sherry.  No  !  A 
little  water  ?  "  he  echoed  in  a  tone  of  ineffable  disgust. 

"  I  think  Father  Delmege  is  right  such  a  day  as  this," 
said  Martin  Hughes,  a  kindly,  soft-faced  priest,  who  was 
generally  silent,  except  when  he  had  a  gentle  or  encour- 
aging word  to  say.  "  And,  indeed,"  he  added,  "  that 
beer  was  no  great  things.  It  was  a  good  day  for  Ire- 
land when  they  did  away  with  it." 

"  Well,  of  course,  every  one  knows  you're  a  queer 
fellow.      But  Luke,  old  man,  are  you  really  alive?''' 

'■'  Alive  and  doing  fairly  well,"  said  Luke,  laugliing. 
"  Ab  actu  ad  esse  valet  consecutio.  And  if  this  is  not 
actuality  Fd  like  to  know  what  is." 

'■'•  There  now  for  you,"  said  the  host  ;  "  he  has  the  dust 
of  the  desks  in  his  mouth  yet.  Begor,  I  suppose  now  I 
could  liardly  remember  to  translate  that." 

'■'  Don't  try,"  said  Father  Tim  ;  '-'■  nothing  disturbs 
the  digestion  so  much  as  serious  thought." 

"Faith,  'tis  true  for  you.  I'll  let  it  alone.  I'm  bet- 
ter engaged.  Mary,  have  that  bit  of  mutton  ready 
when  1  ring." 

And  so,  amidst  bantering,  joking,  story -telling,  from 
the  lips  of  tiiese  genial  and  kindly  men,  Luke  soon  for- 
got his  introspection  ;  and  his  nerves  cooled  down  and 
were  sootlied  by  the  totally  informal  and  delightful  con- 
versation that  shot,  as  if  by  web  and  woof,  across  the 
flowers  and  the  viands.  Then,  when  these  contempti- 
ble dishes  were  removed,  and  they  settled  down  to  a 
quiet  evening,  Father  Tim  crossing  his  legs  comforta- 
bly, and  squeezing  with  the  dexterity  begotten  of  liabit 
the  lemon  into  his  glass,  began  to  philosophize.  Me  was 
slow  of  speech,  unlike  his  dear  friend,  the  host  of  the 
evening,  and  Sinirtan  almost  in  liis  uttoi'anccs,  which  he 
ground  out  slowly  from  the  mills  of  thought. 


34  LUKE   DELMEGE 

« 

"  There's  one  advice  I'd  give  you,  Luke,  my  deal 
boy  ;  and  'tisn't  now,  but  in  twenty  years'  time,  yell 
thank  me  for  the  same.     Harden  your  head  in  time." 

"  I  beg  pardon,  Father,"  said  Luke,  wonderingly. 

"  For  what,  my  boy  ?  "  said  Father  Tim. 

"  I  didn't  quite  understand  you,"  said  Luke,  timidly. 
"  You  said  something  —  " 

"  I  said,"  replied  Father  Tim,  dropping  in  a  tiny  bit 
of  sugar,  "and  I  repeat  it,  harden  your  head  in  time." 

"  Let  the  boy  alone,"  said  Father  Alartin  ;  "  don't 
mind  his  nonsense,  Luke." 

"  I  said,  and  I  repeat  it,"  said  Father  Tim,  "  and 
'tisn't  now,  but  in  thirty  years'  time,  you'll  value  the 
advice  ;  harden  your  head  in  time.  You  see  'tis  this 
way,"  he  continued  methodically,  "if  you  take  one 
glass  of  wine,  even  that  claret  there,  which  is  no  more 
than  so  much  water,  and  if  it  gets  into  your  head,  and 
your  eyes  are  watery,  and  your  knees  weak,  and  you 
cannot  say,  three  times  running,  the  British  Constitu- 
tion, you  are  a  drunkard  and  a  profligate.  But  if  you 
can  drink  a  puncheon  of  the  hard  stuff,  like  this,  and 
your  liead  is  cool,  and  your  knees  steady,  and  your 
tongue  smooth  and  glib,  you  are  a  most  temperate  and 
abstemious  man.  'Tis  the  hard  head  that  does  it.  A 
civil  tongue  and  a  hard  head  will  take  any  man  through 
the  world." 

"  But  do  you  mean  to  say,"  said  Luke,  who  was 
amazed  at  such  a  statement,  "  that  that  is  the  way  the 
workl  judges  of  intemperance  ?  " 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  said  Fatlier  Tim,  "  what  else  ?  The 
world  judges  what  it  sees  —  nothing  else." 

"  But  that's  most  shocking  and  unfair,"  said  Luke. 
"Why,  any  poor  fellow  may  make  a  mistake  —  " 

"  If  he  made  such  a  mistake  in  Maynooth,  how  would 
he  be  judged  ?  "  said  Father  Tim. 

"  He  would  be  promptly  expelled,  of  course.  But 
then,  you  know,  men  are  on  probation  there,  and  it  is 
natural  —  " 

"Maynooth  is  the  world,"  said  Father  Tim,  laconi- 


THE   SAGACITIES   OF   AGE  35 

cally.  "  Men  are  always  on  probation  till  they  pass 
their  final,  beyond  the  grave." 

This  was  so  good,  so  grand  an  inspiration  that  Father 
Tim  gave  up  the  next  ten  minutes  to  a  delightful  inward 
and  inaudible  chuckle  of  self-congratulation,  intensified 
by  Luke's  frightened  solemnity.     Then  he  relented. 

"  Don't  mind  an  old  cynic,  Luke,"  he  said.  "  Diogenes 
must  growl  from  his  tub  sometimes." 

"  By  the  way,  Luke,"  said  Father  Martin,  "  you  are 
mighty  modest.  You  never  told  us  of  your  triumphs 
at  the  last  exam.  lie  swept  everything  before  him,"  he 
said,  in  an  explanatory  tone  to  Father  Pat,  the  host. 
The  latter  was  embarrassed  for  a  moment,  but  only  for 
a  moment. 

"  Did  you  expect  anything  else  from  his  mother's 
son?"  he  asked.  "  Why,  that's  tlie  cleverest  woman 
in  the  three  parishes.  Mike  Delmege  wouldn't  be 
what  he  is  but  for  her  to-day.  But  Luke,  —  did  you 
see  all  his  prizes  ?  "  he  suddenly  asked.  "  Ah  I  my 
dear  fellow,  if  Luke  had  six  years  more,  he'd  have  a 
library  like  Trinity  College." 

"  Did  you  top  the  class  in  everything,  Luke  ?  "  said 
Father  Martin. 

"■  Everything  but  Hebrew,"  said  Luke,  blushing. 
"  You  know  tluit  there  —  " 

He  was  about  to  enter  into  elaborate  explanations  of 
his  comparative  failure  there,  and  a  good  deal  of  ]Maso- 
retic  and  Syro-Clialdaic  philology  was  on  his  lips  ;  but 
someliow,  lie  tliought  of  the  whole  tiling  now  without 
elation,  nay  even  with  a  certain  well-delined  feeling  of 
disgust.  That  little  reverie  there  above  the  sea,  in 
which  he  saw,  as  in  a  mirror,  the  vanity  and  futility  of 
these  transitory  and  worthless  triumi>hs,  liad  well-nigh 
cured  him  of  all  his  pride  and  elation ;  but  he  was 
wondering,  between  the  vibrations  of  pleasure  and  dis- 
gust, at  the  eccentricities  of  men,  now  regarding  his 
academical  triumi)lis  with  contemptuous  indifference, 
and  again  attaching  to  them  an  imiiortance  which  his 
common  sense  told  him  was  not  altogether  the  vapour- 


36  LUKE   DELMEGE  t 

ings  of  mere  flattery.     In  fact,  men  and  their  ever 
varying  estimates  of  human  excellence  were  becoming 
emigmatic  ;    and,    to   his   own    mind,    therefore,   their 
instability  proved  the  very  worthlessness  of  the  things 
they  praised  and  applauded. 

"  You  are  all  right  now  for  life,  my  boy,"  said  Father 
Martin,  timidly.  "  You  have  made  your  name,  and  it 
is  as  indelible  as  a  birthmark.  All  you  have  got  to  do 
now  is  to  look  down  calmly  on  us  poor  fellows,  who 
never  got  an  Atque.'^  ^ 

"That's  true,"  said  the  venerable  host._  "Why, 
when  his  time  comes  for  a  parish,  we  must  build  a  town 
for  him.  There  will  be  nothing  in  this  diocese  fit  for 
him." 

"  They'll  make  him  Vicar-Apostolic  or  Bishop,  or 
something  over  there,"  said  Father  Martin.  "He'll 
become  a  regular  John  Bull.  If  any  fellow  attempts 
to  examine  you  for  faculties,  tell  him  you  are  a  gold- 
medallist  and  he'll  collapse." 

"  Or  pitch  Camhrensis  Eversus  at  his  head,"  said 
Father  Pat. 

"  Well,  I'm  commencing  well,  whatever,"  said  Luke, 
entering  into  the  fun. 

"  So  you  are,  my  boy,  so  you  are,"  said  the  host, 
encouragingly.  "  If  you'd  only  take  to  the  wine  of  the 
country,  you'd  infallibly  rise  in  the  profession." 

"  I'm  dining  with  the  Canon  on  Sunday,"  said  Luke, 
demurely. 

"  What  ?  "  cried  all  in  chorus. 

"  Had  you  the  courage  ?  " 

"  There's  no  end  to  the  impudence  of  these  young 

fellows !  " 

"  My  God  !  "  said  Father  Tim,  solemnly  and  slowly. 

"  The  next  thing  will  be  your  asking  him  down  to 
dine  at  Lisnalee,"  said  the  host. 

"And    why    not?"    said    Luke,    flushing    angrily 
"  What  discredit  is  there  in  dining  under  the  roof  of 
an  honest  man  ?  " 

1  The  lowest  college  distinction. 


THE   SAGACITIES   OF   AGE  37 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  said  Father  Pat,  musingly, 

"  And  why  not  ?  "  said  Father  Tim,  as  from  afar  off. 

"Ai)d  why  not?"  said  Father  Martin,  looking  down 
mournfully  on  the  young  priest.  Then  the  latter  began 
to  put  a  lot  of  turbulent  and  revolutionary  questions  to 
himself.  Am  I  not  a  priest  as  well  as  he?  Why 
should  he  not  meet  my  mother  and  sisters,  as  well  as  I 
am  expected  to  meet  his  relatives,  if  he  has  any  ?  Who 
has  placed  this  mighty  chaos  between  us,  as  between 
Lazarus  and  Dives?  It  is  all  this  infernal,  insular, 
narrow-minded,  fifteenth-century  conservatism  that  is 
keeping  us  so  many  hundred  years  beliind  the  rest  of 
the  world.  Could  this  occur  in  any  other  country  ? 
And  who  will  liave  the  courage  to  come  forward  and 
pulverize  forever  this  stiff,  rigid  formalism,  built  on 
vanity  and  ignorance,  and  buttressed  by  that  most  in- 
tolerable of  human  follies  —  the  pride  of  caste? 

"  By  Jove,  I'll  ask  him,"  said  Luke,  aloud. 

''  No,  my  boy,  you  won't.  Don't  practise  that  most 
foolish  of  gymnastics  —  knocking  your  head  against  a 
stone  wall." 

''Then  I  won't  dine  with  him,"  said  Luke,  deter- 
minedly. 

"  Oh,  but  you  will,"  said  Father  Pat,  admiringly. 
"  Did  ye  ever  see  such  an  untrained  young  colt  in  all 
your  lives?  Now,  you'll  go  on  Sunday  and  dine  with 
the  Canon  ;  and  I  think,  if  we  can  put  our  experiences 
together,  you  won't  make  any  egregious  mistakes. 
Where  will  we  begin.  Father  Martin  ?  Stand  up  and 
show  Luke  how  to  take  the  ladies  in  to  dimier." 

"Tell  your  experiences,  Pat,"  said  Father  Martin, 
good-humouredly.  "That  will  serve  as  a  manual  of 
eti(][uette — I  mean  your  mistakes." 

"I  never  made  but  one  mistake,"  said  Fatlior  Pat, 
with  a  show  of  pretended  anger,  "but  that  excluded 
me  from  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  forever.  It  was  all 
about  one  or  two  little  beggarly  peas.  I  had  dined 
well  —  at  least  as  well  as  could  be  expected  when  you 
have  to  have  your  eye  on  your  plate  and  on  your  host 


38  LUKE   DELMEGE 

at  the  same  time.  I  was  flattering  myself  that  I  had 
got  through  the  miserable  business  with  flying  colours, 
when  some  evil  spirit  put  it  into  my  head  to  pick  up  a 
few  little  peas  that  lay  upon  my  plate.  Now,  I  didn't 
want  them,  but  the  old  boy  put  them  there.  I  put  my 
fork  gently  upon  one.  It  jumped  away  like  a  grass- 
hopper. Then  I  tried  Number  Two.  Off  he  went 
like  a  ball  of  quicksilver.  Then  Number  Three.  The 
same  followed,  until  they  were  gyrating  around  for  all 
the  world  like  cyclists  on  a  cinder  track.  Then  I  got 
mad.  My  Guardian  Angel  whispered  :  '  Let  them 
alone.'  But  my  temper  was  up ;  and  there  I  was  chas- 
ing those  little  beggars  around  my  plate,  for  all  the 
world  like  the  thimble-riggers  at  a  fair.  Now,  I  firmly 
believe  there's  something  wrong  and  uncanny  about 
peas  ;  else,  why  does  the  conjurer  always  get  a  pea  for 
his  legerdemain  ;  and  that's  the  reason,  you  know,  the 
pilgrims  had  to  put  peas  in  their  shoes  long  ago  as  a 
penance,  and  to  trample  them  under  foot.  Well,  at 
last,  I  said  :  '  Conquer  or  die  !  '  I  looked  up  and  saw 
the  Canon  engaged  in  an  engrossing  conversation  with 
a  grand  lady.  Now  or  never,  I  said  to  myself.  I 
quietly  slipped  my  knife  under  these  green  little  demons 
and  gobbled  them  up.  I  daren't  look  up  for  a  few 
seconds.  When  I  did,  there  was  the  Canon  glowering 
on  me  like  a  regular  Rhadamanthus.  I  knew  then  I  was 
done  for.  He  said  nothing  for  a  few  days.  Then 
came  the  thunder-clap.  '  I  could  foi'give,'  he  said,  in 
his  grandiose  way,  '  your  solecisms  —  ha  —  of  speech  : 
your  ungrammatical  and — ha  —  unrecognized  pronun- 
ciations ;  but  to  —  eat  —  peas  —  with  —  a  —  knife  !  I 
didn't  think  that  such  a  dread  mortification  could  he 
in  store  for  me  ! '  He  never  asked  me  to  dine  from 
that  day  to  this,  —  for  which  I  say,  with  a  full  heart, 
Deo  Gratias.  But  Luke,  old  man,  look  sharp.  Let 
me  see.  Give  him  a  few  hints,  Tim  !  Martin,  try  and 
brush  up  your  etiquette." 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Father  Tim,  in  his  own  philosophical 
way,  "  tell  me,  Luke,  could  you  manage  to  hold  a  wine- 
glass by  the  stem  ?  " 


THE   SAGACITIES    OF   AGE  39 

"  Certainly,"  said  Luke. 
"  And  hold  it  up  to  the  light  ?  " 
"  Of  course,"  said  Luke. 

"  Could  you,  could  you,  bring  yourself  to  sniff  the 
wine,  and  taste  ever  so  little  a  drop,  and  say  :  Un  I 
that's  something  like  wine  !  That  Chateau  '  Yquem, 
sir,  is  the  vintage  of  '75.  I  know  it,  and  1  congratulate 
you,  sir,  upon  your  cellar  !  " 

"  I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Luke,  despondently. 

*'  If  you  could,  you  were  a  made  man  for  life,"  said 
Father  Tim. 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  flowers  ?  "  he  asked 
after  a  long  pause. 

"  I  think  I  know  a  daisy  from  a  buttercup,"  said  Luke, 
laughing. 

"  Could  you  bring  yourself  —  you  can  if  you  like  — 
to  give  a  little  start  of  surprise,  somewhere  about  the 
laiddle  of  dinner,  and  gasp  out  in  a  tone  of  choking 
wonderment  :  Why,  that's  the  Amaranthus  Duraudi! 
I  M'as  always  persuaded  that  there  was  but  one  speci- 
men of  tliat  rare  exotic  in  Ireland,  and  that  was  in  the 
Duke  of  Leinster's  conservatory  at  Carton  !  " 

Luke  laughed  and  sliook  his  head  negatively. 

''You  lack  tlie  esprit,  the  courage  of  your  race,  me 
boy,"  said  Fatlier  Tim.  " 'Tis  the  dash  that  gains  the 
day  ;  or,  siiall  I  call  it,"  he  said,  looking  around, 
"  impudence  7  " 

After  a  long  ])ause,  lie  resumed  :  — 

"  Did  ye  ever  licar  of  a  chap  callctl  liotticelli  ?  " 

"  Never  !  "  said  Luke,  laughing. 

"  Why,  my  dear  fellow,  your  education  has  been  shock- 
ingly neglected.  What  were  you  doing  for  the  last  six 
or  eight  years  that  you  never  heard  of  Botticelli  / "' 

"  Somehow.  I  managed  to  get  on  without  him,"  said 
Luke.     "  What  was  he  —  a  c'ook  ?  " 

"  No  use,"  said  Fatlier  Tim,  shaking  his  head  ;  "he'll 
be  turned  out  ignominiously,  and  "we'll  all  be  dis- 
graced." 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  Father  Martin,  "  'tis  too  late  now, 


40  LUKE   DELMEGE 

Tim,  to  give  him  lectures  on  botany  or  the  old  masters, 
we  must  be  satisfied  with  telling  him  what  not  to  do." 

"I  suppose  so.  Go  on,  Martin,"  said  Father  Tim, 
resignedly. 

"  Don't  eat  out  of  the  front  of  the  spoon  !  "  said 
Father  Martin. 

"  Don't  make  any  noise  when  eating  ;  no  more  than 
would  frighten  a  rabbit,"  said  Father  Pat. 

"  As  you  value  your  soul,  don't  put  your  hands  on 
the  table,  between  the  dishes,"  said  Father  Tim. 

"  You're  a  teetotaller,  aren't  you  ?  "  said  the  host. 
"  You're  all  right,  tho'  he  thinks  it  vulgar  ;  and  so  it 
is,  horribly  vulgar.  But  you  won't  be  tempted  to  ask 
any  one  to  drink  wine  with  you.  He'd  never  forgot 
that." 

"  Don't  say  '  please  '  or  '  thank  you  '  to  the  servants 
for  your  life.  He  thinks  that  a  sign  of  low  birth  and 
bad  form,"  said  Father  Tim. 

"  Is  there  anything  else  ?  "  said  Father  Martin,  rack- 
ing his  memory.  "  Oh,  yes  !  Look  with  some  con- 
tempt at  certain  dishes,  and  say  No  !  like  a  pistol-shot. 
He  likes  that." 

"■  If  he  forgets  to  say  '  Grace,'  be  sure  to  remind  him 
of  it,"  said  Father  Pat. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  of  course,  and  won't  he  be  thankful  ? " 
said  Father  Tim. 

"■  Well,  many  thanks.  Fathers,"  said  Luke,  rising. 
"  I  must  be  off.  Not  much  time  now  with  the  old  folks 
at  home  !  " 

"  Tell  Margery  we'll  all  be  down  for  tea,  and  she 
must  play  all  Cardan's  airs  —  everv  one,"  said  Father 
Pat. 

"■  All  right,"  said  Luke,  gaily. 

He  had  gone  half-way  down  the  field  before  the  curate's 
house  wlien  he  was  peremptorily  called  back.  There 
had  been  a  consultation  evidently. 

"  We  were  near  forgetting,"  said  Father  Tim,  anx- 
iously, "and  'twould  be  awful,  wouldn't  it?" 

The  other  two  nodded  assent. 


I 


THE   SAGACITIES   OF   AGE  41 

"  If  by  any  chance  he  should  ask  you  to  carve  — " 

"  Especially  a  duck,"  chimed  in  Father  Martin — 

"  Say  at  once  that  your  mother  is  dead  —  that  you 
know  she  is  —  and  cut  home  for  the  bare  life,  and  liide 
under  the  bed." 

"  All  right,  Father  Tim,  all  right  !  "  said  Luke, 
laughing. 

"But  couldn't  you  manage  about  that  wineglass  — 
just  to  shut  one  eye,  and  say  what  I  told  you  ?  "  said 
Father  Tim,  in  a  pleading  tone. 

"No  !  No  !  "  said  Luke,  "never  !  " 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Father  Martin,  "  do  you  know 
anything  about  poultry?  Do  you  know  a  Dorking 
from  a  Wyandotte  ?  " 

But  Luke  had  vanished. 

"  What  are  these  professors  doing  in  these  colleges, 
at  all,  at  all  ?  "  said  Father  Martin,  when  the  trio  re- 
turned mournfully  to  the  table.  "  Why  do  they  turn 
out  such  raw  young  fellows,  at  all,  at  all  ?  " 

"Why,  indeed?"  said  Father  Tim. 

"  Hard  to  say,"  said  Father  Pat. 


CHAPTER  IV 

DIES  MAGNA,  ET  —  AMARA 

"  Father  Luke,  if  you  please,  Miss,"  said  Mrs. 
Delmege  to  her  youngest  daughter,  Margery.  I  regret 
to  say  that  that  young  hxdy  was  an  incorrigible  sinner  in 
this  respect ;  and  this  maternal  correction  was  required 
at  least  ten  times  a  day  during  the  brief,  happy  days 
that  Luke  was  now  spending  at  home.  It  was  "  Luke," 
"  Luke,"  "  Luke,"  all  day  long  with  Margery  ;  and  the 
mother's  beautiful  pride  in  her  newly  ordained  son  was 
grievously  shocked. 

"  You  think  he's  no  more  than  the  rest  of  ye,"  said 
Mrs.  Delmege,  "  but  I  tell  you  he  is.  He  is  the 
anointed  minister  of  God  ;  and  the  biggest  man  in  the 
land  isn't  aiqual  to  him." 

But  how  could  Margery  help  the  familiarity  in  her 
sisterly  anxiety  that  Luke  should  make  a  glorious 
debut,  first  at  last  Mass  the  following  Sunday  ;  and 
secondly,  —  and  I  regret  to  say  that  I  fear  it  -was 
deemed  more  important,  —  at  the  Canon's  dinner-table 
on  Sunday  evening  ? 

'^  Sure  I'd  rather  he  was  home  with  us  on  the  last 
Sunday  he'll  spend  in  Ireland,"  said  Mrs.  Delmege. 
"•  And  sure  Father  Pat  could  come  ujJ,  and  we  could 
have  a  nice  little  dinner  for  'em.  But,  after  all,  when 
the  Canon  asked  him,  it  would  never  do  to  refuse. 
Sure  it's  just  the  same  as  the  Bishop  himself." 

"  I  know  that  horrid  Mrs.  Wilson  and  her  grand, 
proud  daughter  will  be  there,  and  that  they'll  be  look- 
ing down  on  poor  Luke  —  " 

42 


DIES   MAGNA,    ET  — AMARA  43 

"  Father  Luke,  Miss  !  How  often  must  I  be  telling 
you  ?  " 

"Very  well,  mother.  Be  it  so.  But  Luke  and  I 
were  always  playmates,  and  it  sounds  more  familiar." 

"  But  you  must  remember  that  Luke  —  ahem  !  Father 
Luke  —  is  no  longer  a  gossoon.  He's  a  priest  of  God, 
and  you  must  look  on  him  as  such." 

"  Of  course,  of  course,  mother,  but  I  know  they'll 
make  him  uncomfortable  with  all  their  airs  and  non- 
sense. To  see  that  Barbara  Wilson  walk  up  the  aisle 
on  Sunday  is  enough  to  make  any  one  forget  what 
they're  about.  You'd  think  it  was  the  Queen  of  Eng- 
land. I  wonder  she  doesn't  go  into  the  pulpit  and 
preach  to  us." 

"  Wisha,  thin,  her  mother  was  poor  and  low  enough 
at  one  time.  I  remember  well  when  the  Canon  was  only 
a  poor  curate,  like  Father  Pat,  (iod  bless  liim  !  and 
when  his  sister  was  —  well,  we  mustn't  be  talking  of 
these  things,  nor  placing  our  neighbours.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  there's  a  good  heart  under  all  their  grandeur." 

"  I  wouldn't  mind,"  said  ^Margery,  stitching  on  a  but- 
ton on  the  grand  new  stock  she  Avas  making  for  Luke, 
"but  Father  Martin  said  the  other  night  that  Luke — " 

"There  agin,"  said  tlie  mother. 

"  Could  teach  half  tlie  diocese  theology.  But  what 
do  these  people  care  ?  I  know  they  look  down  on  him, 
and  he's  so  sensitive.  He  won't  stand  it,  1  tell  you, 
mother." 

So  the  sisterly  anxieties  ranged  over  every  possible 
accident  to  her  idol  until  Sun(hiy  morning  came.  Ah  ! 
that  was  a  great  day  at  Lisnalee.  They  were  going  to 
see  their  best-beloved  at  the  altar  of  God.  And  Luke 
was  going  to  celebrate,  there  on  the  predella,  wliere  he 
had  knelt  thirteen  years  ago,  and  raised,  with  fear  and 
awe,  the  very  vestments  he  was  going  to  wear  to-day. 
And  there,  at  the  same  wooden  rails,  had  he  received 
for  the  tirst  time  liis  Holy  Communion  ;  the  first  of 
the  numy  times,  as  child,  student,  minorist,  subdeacon, 
deacon,    he   had   knelt    amongst   the   poor   and  lowly, 


44  LUKE   DELMEGE 

Sunday  after  Sunday,  during  his  happy  vacations.  It 
was  all  over  now.  Never  more  would  he  kneel  there 
with  the  congregation.  "Friend,  go  up  higher."  He 
had  heard  the  words,  and  henceforth  he  was  to  stand 
on  high  as  a  mediator  and  teacher,  where  hitherto  he 
had  been  the  suppliant  and  the  pupil.  The  little 
church  was  crowded  to  the  door  ;  and  when  Luke 
appeared,  holding  the  chalice  in  his  hands,  a  thousand 
eyes  rested  on  his  youthful  face.  He  had  just  had  a 
brief  but  animated  debate  in  the  sacristy. 

"  Was  he  to  read  the  'Acts  '  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  And  the  '  Prayer  before  Mass  '  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"He  never  could  do  it." 

"  He  must ;  and  read  the  publications,  too  ;  and, 
Luke,  if  you  could  muster  up  courage  to  say  a  few 
words  to  the  congregation,  they'd  all  be  delighted." 

But  Luke  drew  the  line  there.  Trembling,  half  from 
joy,  half  from  fear,  rigid  as  a  statue,  he  went  slowly 
and  reverently  through  the  sacred  ceremonies,  with 
what  raptures  and  ecstasies,  God  only  knows  !  Once, 
and  once  only,  had  Father  Pat  ("a  proud  man  this 
day,"  as  he  described  himself)  to  interfere.  It  was 
just  at  that  sublime  moment  called  the  "  Little  Eleva- 
tion," when  Luke  held  the  Sacred  Host  over  the  chalice, 
and  raised  both  to  God  the  Father,  and  murmured, 
"  Omnis  honor  et  gloria."  Just  then  a  tear  rolled  down 
the  cheek  of  the  young  priest,  and  Father  Pat  had  to 
say  :  — 

"Hold  up,  man  ;   'tis  nearly  all  over  now." 

But  it  took  some  minutes  before  he  could  compose 
his  voice  for  the  Pater  Noster  ;  and  ever  after,  no  mat- 
ter what  other  distractions  he  might  have  had  in  cele- 
bration, he  never  repeated  that  "Per  ipsura,  et  cum 
ipso,  et  in  ipso  "  without  remembering  his  emotions  at 
his  first  Mass. 

Father  Pat  had  provided  for  the  young  priest  a 
modest  breakfast  in  the  sacristy.     It  was  a  wise  pro- 


DIES   MAGNA,    ET  — AMARA  45 

vision,  for  he  had  serious  work  before  him  —  no  less 
than  to  impart  his  priestly  blessing  to  each  and  all  of 
the  vast  congregation.  It  was  a  touching  and  impres- 
sive sight.  There  they  knelt  on  the  hard  shingle  — 
young  and  old,  rich  and  poor,  all  reduced  by  their  com- 
mon faith  to  a  dead  level  of  meekness  and  humility  ; 
and  the  poor  beggarwoman  or  hodach,  who  cringed  and 
whined  during  the  week  at  some  farmer's  house,  now 
felt  that  here  was  neutral  ground,  where  all  had  equal 
rights,  and  where  no  distinction  was  acknowledged. 
And  so  the  brilliant  sunshine  gleamed  through  the 
wliispering  leaves,  and  fell  on  gray  hairs,  or  the  rich 
auburn  tresses  of  some  young  girl,  or  the  fair  gold  of 
some  child  ;  and  througli  the  green  twilight  the  young 
priest  passed,  uncovered  and  full  of  emotion,  as  he 
laid  his  hands  on  some  old  playmate  or  schoolfellow,  or 
some  venerable  village-teacher  to  whom  he  had  been 
taught  to  look  up  with  veneration  from  his  childhood. 
And  the  little  children  doubled  around  trees,  and  shot 
down  to  the  end  of  tlie  queue  to  get  a  second  blessing, 
or  even  a  third  ;  and  many  were  tlie  boasts  heard  in 
school  that  week  of  the  many  times  some  curly-headed 
youngsters  had  stolen  the  young  priest's  blessing.  But 
was  it  all  sunshine  and  music  ?  Well,  no  I  You  see 
it  never  is.  There  nuist  be  gray  clouds  to  bring  out 
the  gold  of  the  summer  sun  ;  and  there  must  be  a  dis- 
cordant note  to  empliasize  the  melodies  that  sing  them- 
selves to  sleep  in  the  liuman  heart.  And  so,  just  a 
wee,  wee  whisper  blotted  out  for  the  momeut  all  this 
glory,  and  hushed  the  music  that  was  kindling  into  a 
full-throated  oratorio  in  the  breast  of  the  young  priest. 
He  was  pushing  his  way  gently  through  the  erowd  that 
was  jammed  at  tlic  narrow  gate  which  led  into  the 
chapel  yard,  when  he  heard  just  in  front  of  him,  and 
so  near  that  he  touched  the  rough  frieze  coat  of  the 
speaker,  these  words  :  — 

"  But  it  is  quare  that  he  has  to  go  on  the  furrin' 
mission.  Sure,  "tis  only  tliim  that  can't  pay  for  their- 
selves  in  college  that  has  to  go  abroad." 


46  LUKE   DELMEGE 

"  How  do  we  know  ?  Perhaps,  after  all,  Mike  Del- 
meg'e  is  not  the  sthrongc  man  we  tuk  him  to  be." 

"  And  I  hard  that  Bryan  Dwyer's  son,  over  there  at 
Altamount,  is  goin'  into  the  college  to  be  a  Dane,  or 
somethin'  grate  intirely." 

"•  And  sure  they  wint  to  college  thegither.  And  if 
this  vounsr  man "  —  he  threw  his  thumb  over  his 
shoulder  — -  "  is  the  great  scoUard  intirely  they  makes 
him  out  to  be,  why  isn't  he  sint  into  the  college  instid 
of  goin'  abroad?" 

'•'  Well,  Father  Pat,  God  bless  him  !  says  that  Luke 
had  no  aiqual  at  all,  at  all,  in  Manute." 

"  I  suppose  so.  Mike  Delmege  has  a  warm  corner  ; 
and  sure  I  see  a  fine  flock  of  turkeys  in  the  bawn 
field.  Wan  or  two  of  'em  will  be  missin'  soon,  I'm 
thinkin'." 

"  I  suppose  so.  Did  ye  notice  how  narvous  the 
young  priesht  was  at  the  '  Acts '  ?  Why,  my  little 
Terry  could  do  it  betther.  And  what  did  he  want 
bringing  in  the  Queen  for  ?  " 

"  He's  practisin'.  He's  goin'  to  England,  I  under- 
shtand  ;  and  he  must  pray  for  the  Queen  there." 

"Begor,  I  thought  the  Church  was  the  same  all  over 
the  wurruld.  Wan  Lord  —  wan  Faith  —  wan  Bap- 
tism —  " 

"  Sh  !  "  said  his  neighbour,  nudging  him  ;  and  Luke 
went  home  with  a  very  bitter  sting  in  his  chalice  of 
honey. 

It  was  not  exactly  the  unkind  allusions  made  by  these 
ignorant  cottiers,  or  the  ill-concealed  sarcasm  about  his 
own  dearest  ones,  that  nettled  him.  These  things,  in- 
deed, were  ugly,  irritating  facts ;  and  to  a  proud  spirit, 
they  were  doubly  galling  on  such  a  day  of  triumph. 
But  the  Bishop  had  ignored  him  and  his  successes,  and 
had  kept  at  home  and  placed  in  a  position  of  honour  in 
his  native  diocese  a  student  who  never  had  distinguished 
himself  in  college,  or  even  appeared  amongst  the  suc- 
cessful alumni  at  the  great  day  of  distribution.  What 
was  all  this  ?     Had  not  the  Bishop  smiled  on  him,  and 


DIES   MAGNA,    ET  — AMARA  47 

congratulated  him,  and  told  him  how  he  reflected  honour 
on  his  diocese  ?  And  now  he  should  go  abroad  for  six 
or  seven  years,  whilst  his  junior,  a  distinctly  inferior 
man,  was  lifted  over  the  lieads  of  tldrty  or  forty  seniors, 
and  placed  at  once  in  a  responsible  position  in  the  Dioce- 
san Seminary  !  Luke  was  choking  with  chagrin  and 
annoyance.  He  put  his  liand  to  his  forehead  mechani- 
cally, and  thought  he  found  his  laurel  crown  no  longer 
the  glossy,  imperial  wreath  of  distinction,  whose  per- 
fume filled  half  the  world,  but  a  poor  little  corona  of 
tinsel  and  tissue-paper,  such  as  cliildren  wreathe  for 
each  other  around  the  Maypole  of  youth. 

He  was  very  morose  in  consequence  ;  and,  when  he 
entered  the  house,  and  found  all  gathered  for  the  mid- 
day meal,  he  looked  around  witliout  a  word,  and  with- 
out a  word  passed  the  tlireshold  again,  and  moved  down 
toward  the  sea. 

"  Poor  boy  !  "  said  the  mother,  affectionately  ;  "  that 
last  Mass  was  too  much  for  him,  entirely.  And  sure  I 
thought  the  people  would  ate  him." 

But  Margery,  with  the  affectionate  instinct  of  a  sister, 
saw  deeper,  but  only  said  :  — 

"  'Tis  this  great  dinner  this  evening  that's  troubling 
him.     I  wish  he  were  left  at  home  with  us." 

Luke  crossed  the  fields  rapidly,  and  then  lightly 
jumping  over  a  stile,  found  himself  in  one  of  those  un- 
fenced  fields  that  slope  down  to  the  sea.  A  few  sheep, 
nibbling  the  burnt  grass  lazily,  scampered  away  ;  and 
Luke,  jumping  the  rugged  stones  of  a  rougli  wall,  found 
himself  in  a  tisherman's  cottage.  The  family  were  at 
dinner,  and  Luke,  taking  off  his  hat,  said  cheerily  in  the 
Irish  fashion  :  — 

"  God  bless  the  work  !  and  the  workmen  too  !  " 

"  Wisha,  thill,  God  bless  you.  Master  l^uke,  and  "tis 
you're  a  thousand  times  welcome  1  Mona,  get  a  chair 
for  the  priesht." 

"  And  this  is  my  little  Mona,"  said  Luke,  affection- 
ately ;   "  dear  me,  how  she  is  grown  I  " 

"  And  she  got  your  reverence's  blessing  this  morning, 


48  LUKE   DELMEGE 

glory  be  to  God  !  Wisha,  thin,  Master  Luke,  how  my 
heart  swelled  whin  I  saw  you  at  the  althar." 

"  And  wasn't  Moira  there  ?  "  said  Luke.  "  Where  is 
Moira  ?  " 

Moira  was  making  her  toilette,  if  you  please,  but  now 
came  forward  blushing.  Mona  and  Moira  were  twins, 
and  it  was  Luke  who  insisted  that  they  should  be  called 
Irish  names. 

"  I  have  not  much  to  boast  of  myself,"  he  said,  "  but 
'tis  a  shame  that  our  little  children  should  not  be  called 
by  their  beautiful  Celtic  names." 

"  This  little  fellow,"  said  the  father,  pointing  to  a 
child,  who  was  trying  to  choke  himself  with  milk  and 
potatoes,  "  was  watching  your  reverence  all  the  time. 
And  sure,  whin  he  come  home,  nothin'  would  do  liira 
but  to  get  up  on  a  chair,  and  say  the  '  Dominis  wobis- 
cum '  like  any  priest.  Wisha,  who  knows  ?  Quarer 
things  happen." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  taking  a  pull  in  the  little  boat," 
said  Luke ;  "  I  see  the  oars  and  rowlocks  in  their  old 
places.     Is  she  stanch  and  sound  as  ever  ?  " 

"Stanch  as  ever,  your  reverence,"  the  fisherman 
replied.     "  Will  you  want  one  of  the  byes  ?  " 

"  No  !  I'll  manage  by  myself.  If  you  give  me  a  hand 
to  float  her,  I'll  do  the  rest." 

"  And  a  good  hand  ye  are  at  the  oar,  Father  Luke," 
said  one  of  the  boys.  "  Begor,  ye  could  turn  her  agin 
any  of  us." 

"  Now,  now,  now,  no  Blarney,  Dermot  !  No,  no,  one 
will  do  !     I'll  keep  her  out  for  an  hour  or  two." 

"■  Just  as  long  as  your  reverence  plases,"  said  the  old 
man.  "And,  as  the  day  is  hot,  we'll  take  down  the 
sail,  and  make  a  yawnin'  of  it." 

Luke  pulled  slowly  out  to  sea ;  and  the  swift  exer- 
cise, and  the  ever-changing  aspects  of  the  ocean,  and 
the  invigorating  breeze,  drew  his  thoughts  away  from 
the  perplexing  and  irritating  subjects  that  had  lately 
been  vexing  him.  There  is  something,  after  all,  in 
what  poets  have  sung  about  the  soothing   influences 


DIES   MAGNA,    ET  — AMARA  49 

of  Nature.  Her  mother's  hand  smooths  down  all  the 
ruflled  aspects  and  angry  asperities  of  human  feeling 
and  thought ;  and  her  great  silence  swallows  up  in  a 
kind  of  infinite  peace,  as  of  heaven,  the  buzzing  and 
stinp-incr  of  that  hive  of  hornets,  where 

"  Each  one  moves  with  his  head  in  a  cloud  of  poisonous  flies." 

No  wonder  that  the  best  of  the  world's  workers  have 
sought  peace  in  communion  w^ith  the  solitude  of  Nature, 
and  strength  from  the  great  sublime  lessons  she  teaches 
to  those  who  sit  at  her  feet.  And  it  was  with  the  great- 
est reluctance,  and  only  by  a  tremendous  effort,  that  Luke 
Delmege,  this  momentous  day  in  his  life,  turned  away 
from  the  sybaritic  temptation  of  yielding  himself  up 
wholly  to  the  calm  and  placid  influences  of  sun,  and 
sky,  and  sea ;  and,  like  so  many  other  fools,  souglit 
peace,  the  peace  that  lay  at  his  feet  unsought,  in  a  dread 
introspection  of  self,  and  a  morbid  and  curious  analysis 
of  men's  principles  and  thoughts  about  himself  and  his 
little  place  in  the  world.  It  was  his  first  great  plunge 
into  the  feverish  and  exciting  pastime  of  analyzing 
human  thought  and  action ;  and  then  trying  to  synthe- 
size principles  that  shrank  from  each  other,  and  became 
a  torture  and  a  pain  from  the  impossibility  of  ever 
reconciling  their  mutual  antagonism  and  repellence. 
It  was  the  fatuous  dream  that  Luke  pursued  through 
life  with  all  the  passion  of  a  gandjler  around  the  green 
cloth ;  and  it  beckoned  him  away  from  AA'ork  of  solidity 
and  permanence,  and  left  him  in  middle-age  a  perplexed 
and  disappointed  man. 

In  another  way,  liowever,  this  was  no  novel  experi- 
ment. Very  often,  during  his  summer  holidays,  when 
his  ambition  had  been  stimulated  by  his  academic  suc- 
cesses to  work  more  freely  and  largely  for  further  dis- 
tinctions, he  had  lain  down  in  this  same  boat,  and, 
looking  up  at  the  blue  eye  of  Heaven,  he  had  spent 
hours  in  revolving  the  terminology  and  meaning  of 
some  philosophical  or  theological  puzzle,  and  had  re- 
viewed all  the  authors,  and  all  the  authors'   opinions 


50  LUKE   DELMEGE 

that  had  been  arrayed  for  and  against  it.  It  was  a 
practical  and  useful  way  of  imprinting  on  memory  all 
that  books  could  tell ;  and  very  often,  in  the  winter 
montlis  that  followed,  he  fell  back  gratefully  on  these 
al  fresco  studies,  and  the  immense  storehouse  of  matter 
he  had  accumulated  with  the  sun  as  his  lamp,  and  his 
desk  the  heaving  sea.  But  this  morning,  as  he  rocked 
in  the  thwarts  of  his  sea-cradle,  and  heard  nothing  but 
the  chirp  of  a  sea-lark,  or  the  scream  of  a  sea-gull,  or 
the  gentle  lapping  of  the  pure  green  water  within  six 
inches  of  where  he  lay,  he  had  commenced  the  proemium 
of  the  vaster  studies,  where  no  authors  were  to  be  trusted 
and  experience  alone  could  teach.  But  he  was  com- 
mencing his  singular  and  irremediable  mistake  of  sup- 
posing that  the  elusive  and  ever-changing  moods  of  the 
human  heart  could  be  reduced  by  propositions  to  a  level 
rule,  and  that  human  action  was  controllable  always  by 
those  definite  principles  that  he  had  been  taught  to 
regard  as  fixed  and  unchangeable  truths. 

Once  and  again,  indeed,  he  raised  himself  a  little,  and 
allowed  his  eyes  to  wander  over  the  beautiful,  peaceful 
prospect  that  lay  before  him.  Lap,  lap,  sang  the  tiny, 
sunny  waves.  He  stretched  out  his  burning  hand,  and 
they  clasped  it  in  their  cool  palms.  He  saw  far  away 
the  green  fields,  as  they  sloped  from  the  sea  and  were 
half  dimmed  in  a  golden  haze.  White  specks,  which 
he  knew  were  the  gentle  sheep,  dotted  the  verdure 
here  and  there ;  and  great  patches  of  purple  heather 
stretched  down  and  blended  their  rich  colours  with  the 
deep  red  of  the  rocks,  which  again  was  darkened  into 
cobalt,  that  the  gentle  waves  were  now  fringing  with 
white.  Look  long,  and  rest  in  the  vision,  O  troubled 
soul  !  Why  should  the  murmur  of  a  few  mites  beyond 
that  horizon  of  peace  trouble  thee?  Altogether,  thou 
art  forgotten,  there  in  thy  Nautilus-boat  on  the  bosom 
of  the  mighty  deep.  Cast  from  thee  care,  and  forget 
the  stings  of  the  wasps  who  dare  not  come  hither  to 
fret  thee !  Alas !  and  is  it  not  true  of  us,  that  we 
must  have  the  bitter  myrrh  in  our  wine  of  life  j    and 


DIES   MAGNA,    ET  — AMARA  51 

that  we  create  cares  for  the  luxury  of  fretfulness,  where 
the  world  has  left  us  in  peace  ? 

"  There  are  two  ways  of  looking  at  this  question," 
said  Luke  in  his  soliloquy,  as  if  he  were  addressing  a 
class  of  students,  "  the  subjective  and  the  objective. 
Let  us  take  the  latter  first  as  the  more  reasonable. 
Why  should  I  be  troubled  because  I  am  going  to  Eng- 
land and  my  class-fellow  to  the  seminary  ?  Which  is  the 
better  prospect?  Which  would  you  select,  if  the  matter 
were  left  to  yourself  ?  To  see  a  new  country,  to  get  on 
to  the  gangway  of  the  world,  where  all  types  of  races 
are  passing  to  and  fro  in  endless  variety,  or  to  be  shut 
up  in  a  vulgar  little  place,  teaching  3Iusa,  3Iusae  to  a 
lot  of  snivelling  school-boys,  and  decimal  fractions  to  a 
crowd  just  freed  from  a  country  National  school  ?  To 
stand  in  the  pulpits  of  cathedrals,  and  speak  to  an  intel- 
ligent and  well-read  audience,  those  wonderful  things 
you  have  been  reading  in  Suarez  or  St.  Thomas,  or  to 
blind  yourself  poring,  night  after  night,  over  the  Geonjics 
of  Virgil,  or  the  Anabasis  ?  To  deal  with  inquiring,  anx- 
ious minds,  who  listen  to  you  breathlessly  for  the  key 
to  the  mighty  problems  that  are  agitating  them  in  their 
uncertainty  and  perplexities  ;  to  have  the  intense  grati- 
fication of  satisfying  lionest  inquiry,  and  leading  into 
the  fold  truthful  but  darkened  souls,  who  will  look  up 
to  you  as  their  spiritual  Father  forevermore,  or  to  lead 
successfully  through  a  concursus  a  few  brats,  who  are 
punning  on  your  name,  and  drawing  caricatures  of  your 
face  on  their  greasy  slates  ?  " 

"  Ridiculous  !  "  said  Luke,  aloud. 

"  But  let  us  see  the  subjective  side.  You,  Luke  Del- 
mege,  First  of  First,  that  is  Senior  Wrangler  in  the  first 
ecclesiastical  college  in  the  world,  have  been  set  aside 
coolly,  but  contenqituously,  and  the  preference  of  a  dio- 
cesan honour  has  been  given  to  a  student  admittedly 
and  distinctly  your  inferior  !  You  have  got  a  slap  in 
the  face  from  your  bishoj),  not  so  gentle,  thougli  more 
metaphorical,  than  when  he  touched  your  cheek  in  Con- 
firmation and  said —  (was  it  sarcasm?     God  forbid  I) 


52  LUKE   DELMEGE 

—  Pax  tecum !  You  are  snubbed  before  the  diocese  ; 
the  stigma  will  cling  to  you  during  life,  and  be  reflected 
on  your  family  !  Does  not  this  arrangement  imply  that, 
in  some  respect,  morally,  of  course  —  in  character,  in 
tlie  power  of  ruling  and  governing,  or  teaching,  you  are 
distinctly  inferior  to  your  humble  classmate?  You  know 
St.  Thomas  better  ;  but  he  says  his  prayers  better,  my 
dear  Luke  !  There  is  your  distinct  inferiority;  and  you 
see  now  how  wise  that  old  medieval  monk  was  when  he 
said  :  — 

*  Tunc  videbitur  sapiens  in  hoc  mundo  fuisse,  qui  pro  Christo  didicit 

stultus  et  despectus  esse.' 
'  Tunc  amplius  exaltabitur  simplex  obedientia,  quam  omnis  secu- 

laris  astutia.' 
'  Tunc  plus  laetificabit  pura  et  bona  conscientia,  quam  docta  phi- 

losophia.' 

*  Tunc  plus  valebunt  sancta  opera,  quam  multa  pulchra  verba.' 

"Yes,  yes,"  cried  Luke,  impatiently,  as  the  boat  rocked 
beneath  him  ;  "but  that's  all  'tunc!'  'tunc!'  What 
about  '  nunc !  '  '  nunc '  ?  Can  it  be  that  men's  judgments 
are  like  God's  ?  Then  why  was  so  much  stress  laid  upon 
our  studies  ?  Why  were  we  applauded  as  brilliant  and 
successful  students  ?  Why  were  we  stimulated  to  study 
by  every  human  incentive  that  could  be  held  out  to  us  ? 
Why  did  the  Bishop  himself  congratulate  me  if  he  had 
other  ideas  ?  Was  there  ever  such  a  puzzle  as  the  ways 
of  men  .'"  The  Sphinx  and  the  Isis-Veil  were  nothing  to 
them  i  Then  I'll  fall  back  on  the  realities  —  the  ob- 
jectiveness  of  things.  There  alone  is  truth.  But  is  it 
truth  ?  "  said  the  puzzled  young  priest.  He  had  never 
read  :  — 

"  Only  this  I  have  known,  that  God  made  man  right, 
but  he  entangleth  himself  in  an  infinity  of  questions." 


CHAPTER   V 
A   NOVEL    THESIS 

"  There  is  the  Angelus,  Luke,"  said  Margery  Delmege, 
anxiously,  as  Luke  came  in  from  the  fields  holding  his 
IJreviary  open  with  one  finger.  "Hurry  up,  you'll 
hardly  l^e  in  time  ;  and  it  won't  do  to  keep  grand  people 
waiting." 

Luke  did  not  reply.  He  had  read  somewhere  of  a 
saint  who  was  reading  the  3Tirabilia  of  None  when  a 
great  monarch  was  announced,  and  he  went  on  calmly 
reading.  "He  was  in  audience  with  the  'King  of 
Kings.'  "  So  Luke  read  on  to  the  end,  nut  noticing  liis 
sister's  anxiety.  Then  he  said  the  Sacrosanctae,  and 
then  :  — 

"  Well,  Margy,  you  were  saying  something  ?  " 

"•  1  said  you'll  be  late,  and  that  won't  do.  There  are 
your  cuffs,  and  I  put  in  your  best  sleeve-links  ;  and 
let  me  see  your  collar.  You  must  change  that.  Why, 
'tis  all  damp.     What  have  you  been  doing?" 

Luke  looked  calmly  down  on  the  black  tresses  of 
his  beloved  sister,  as  she  fussed  and  worried  about  his 
toilette. 

"  A  regular  Martha  !  "  he  whispered. 

"  Martha  or  no  JNlartha,  you  nmst  be  turned  out  of 
this  house  decently.  ]\Iind,  come  home  early —  that  is, 
as  early  as  politeness  will  allow.  And  if  that  horrid 
Miss  Wilson  says  anything  offensive. —  I'm  sure  she 
Avill,  —  treat  her  with  sih'ut  contempt." 

"All  right,  Margy.      That's  just  in  my  way." 

"  And  come  home  early,  mind.  Father  Pat  will  be 
here  to  tea  ;  and  —  what  else  '/  " 

63 


54  LUKE   DELMEGE 

"Never  mind,  Margy.  We'll  resume  the  thread  of 
our  narrative  in  another  chapter." 

Margy  watched  his  fine,  tall  figure  as  he  swung  down 
along  the  road,  and  then  went  back  to  get  the  tea  things 
ready,  but  with  many  misgivings  and  forebodings. 

The  irritation  of  the  morning  had  one  good  effect. 
It  had  steeled  Luke's  nerves,  so  that  it  was  quite  in  a 
self-confident,  jaunty  way  he  pulled  the  bell  vigorously 
at  the  Canon's  residence,  and  then  gave  a  more  timid 
knock.  He  was  ushered  into  the  drawing-room  by  the 
tidy  little  servant,  and  announced  as  "Father  Delmege." 
Then  he  was  frozen  into  ice.  The  two  elderly  ladies, 
dressed  in  black  silk,  with  thin  gold  chains  around 
their  necks,  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  then 
turned  to  each  other. 

"  As  I  was  saying,  my  dear,  the  report  is  that  they 
are  separated,  or  going  to  be.  It  couldn't  end  other- 
wise. All  these  naval  fellows,  you  know,  coming  up 
there  at  all  hours  —  well,  well,  we  mustn't  be  unchari- 
table." 

The  only  other  occupant  of  the  room  was  a  young 
lad,  about  six-and-twenty  years  of  age,  who,  faultlessly 
dressed  in  evening  costume,  leaned  languidly  against 
the  mantelpiece,  and  would  have  looked  ineffably  bored 
but  that  he  appeared  to  derive  untold  gratification  from 
the  contemplation  of  his  face  in  the  looking-glass  over 
the  mantelpiece.  Indeed,  to  further  this  ecstatic 
reverie,  he  had  put  aside  carefully  two  bronze  vases 
that  held  summer  flowers,  and  had  even  pushed  away 
the  clock  with  the  singing  birds  that  had  fascinated  Luke 
a  few  days  before.  And  let  it  be  said  at  once  that 
the  reflected  image  was,  without  doubt,  a  beautiful  one. 
A  face,  olive  pale,  was  surmounted  with  a  dark  mass 
of  hair  that  fringed  and  framed  it  to  perfection  ;  and 
through  the  tangled  curls,  a  faultlessly  white  hand  was 
just  now  running,  and  tossing  them  hither  and  thither 
with  careful  indifference.  Two  blue-black  eyes  looked 
steadily  out  from  that  white  face,  or  rather  would  look 
steadily  if  they  were  allowed.     But  just  now  it  seemed 


A  NOVEL  THESIS  55 

an  effort  to  look  at  anything  but  that  fair  figure  in  the 
(quicksilver.  Languor,  deep,  somnolent  languor,  was 
the  characteristic  of  this  youthful  face  and  figure  ; 
and  a  pained  expression,  as  if  the  anticipation  of  the 
evening's  pleasures  was  an  unmitigated  annoyance.  He 
looked  calmly  at  the  young  priest,  and  then  resumed 
his  studies.  Luke,  chilled  and  frozen,  sank  into  a 
chair,  and  began  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  an  album. 
Alas!  he  had  not  unloosed  the  clasp,  when  a  very  musical 
box  chirped  out  :  "  Within  a  mile  of  Edinhoro'  Town."" 
He  closed  the  album  hastily,  but  too  late.  On  went 
tliat  dreadful  tinkling.  He  took  up  a  book  called 
Cdehrities  of  the  Century.  He  was  beginning  to  be 
interested,  when  the  door  shot  open,  and  another  guest, 
a  solicitor,  was  announced.  He  was  warmly  welcomed 
by  the  ladies,  got  a  languid  nod  and  "  Howda "  from 
tiie  Phidian  Apollo,  and  took  no  notice  whatever  of 
Luke.  He  sank  quietly  into  the  sofa,  and  commenced 
the  "  clitter-clatter  "  of  good  society.  Then  the  door 
opened  again,  this  time  to  reveal  unannounced  a  fair 
girlish  form,  and  a  face  very  like  that  of  Apollo,  but 
toned  (hnvn  by  feminine  taste  into  features  that  were 
singular  in  their  beauty,  but  excluded  all  appearance 
of  singularity.  Luke  was  prepared  for  anotiier  cold 
douehe  of  good  society  manuers  ;  but  P)arl)ara  Wilson 
walked  straight  towards  him,  held  out  her  hand,  and 
said  :  — 

"  Father  Delmege,  3'ou  are  ever  so  kind  to  come. 
Mother,  this  is  Luke  Delmege,  of  whom  we  have  heard 
s  )  often.  This  is  my  aunt,  Father  Delmege.  Louis, 
have  you  met  Father  Delmege?  " 

The  Phidian  ApoHo  turned  languidly  around  ;  and 
without  removing  his  hand  from  his  pocket,  he  nodih'd, 
and  said  :  — 

'' Howda?" 

"  Mamma,  you  missed  such  a  treat  this  nioniing.  It 
was  Father  Delmege's  first  Mass  ;  and  oh  I  it  was  beau- 
tiful !  And  dear^Father  Pat  was  there,  and  the  sun 
was  resting  on  liis  beautiful  white  hair,  like  a  nimbus. 


56  LUKE   DELMEGE 

And  we  all  got  Father  Delmege's   blessing,  and  why 
didn't  you  preach  ?     We  were  dying  to  hear  you  —  " 

''  Well,"  said  Luke,  "  you  knoAV,  Miss  Wilson,  it  is 
not  customary  to  preach  at  one's  first  Mass —  " 

"  Ah,  of  course,  on  ordinary  occasions.  But  we 
wanted  to  liear  you,  you  know.  Where  is  the  blue  rib- 
bon ?     Why  don't  you  wear  it  ?  " 

"  The  '  blue  ribbon  '  ?  "  said  Luke,  in  amazement. 

"  Yes.  Didn't  you  carry  off  the  '  blue  ribbon  '  in  May- 
nooth  ?  Father  Martin  said  that  tliere  hadn't  been  so  dis- 
tinguished a  course  in  Maynooth  for  over  fifty  years." 

"  Father  Martin  is  too  kind,"  murmured  Luke,  who 
had  now  thawed  out  from  his  icy  loneliness,  and  felt 
grateful  beyond  measure  to  this  gentle  girl,  who  had, 
with  the  infinite  and  unerring  tact  of  charity,  broken 
down  all  the  icy  barriers  of  good  society.  Mrs.  Wilson 
and  her  sister  woke  up,  and  manifested  a  little  interest 
in  the  young  athlete.  The  solicitor  rubbed  his  hands, 
and  murmured  something  about  his  old  friend,  Mike 
Delmege,  *•'  as  good  a  man,  sir,  your  respected  father,  as 
is  to  be  found  in  the  Petty  Sessions  District  ;  "  and 
even  Apollo  paused  from  his  hair-teasing,  and  looked 
with  a  little  concern  and  some  jealousy  at  Luke. 

Then  the  Canon  entered  with  one  or  two  other  visit- 
ors, who  had  been  transacting  business  with  him,  and 
dinner  was  announced. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Barbara  to  her  uncle,  in  reply  to  an 
invitation  ;  "  I  intend  to  sit  near  Father  Delmege  dur- 
ing dinner.      I  have  lots  to  say  to  him." 

Ah,  Margy  !  Margy  !  thought  Luke,  what  rash 
judgments  you  have  been  guilty  of  !  Won't  I  surprise 
you  with  all  the  goodness  and  kindness  of  this  contemp- 
tuous young  lady? 

The  dinner  was  simple,  but  faultless.  The  conversa- 
tion simmered  along  on  the  usual  topics  —  sports,  which 
occupied  then  a  considerable  share  of  public  interest  in 
Ireland.  One  young  champion  was  especially  applauded 
for  having  thrown  a  heavy  weight  some  incomputable 
distance  ;  and  his  muscles,  and  nerves,  and  weight,  and 


A   KOVEL   THESIS  57 

training  were  all  carefully  debated.  If  ever  we  become 
a  wealthy  people,  our  national  cry  will  be  that  of  the 
ancient  Romans  —  Fcaiem  et  Circetises !  Then  came 
the  Horse  Show  that  was  to  be  held  in  August.  Here 
the  ladies  shone  by  their  delightful  anticipations  of  the 
great  Dublin  carnival.  Then  the  Flower  Show,  just 
coming  on  in  a  neighbouring  town.  Here  the  Canon 
was  in  his  element,  and  said,  with  an  air  of  modest  de- 
preciation, that  he  had  been  assured  that  :  — 

"  My  Marshal  Niel  —  ha —  shall  certainly  carry  First 
Prize  ;  but  I  know    that  my    Gladiolus    Cinquecentus 
will  be  beaten.     A   happy  defeat!  for    Lady  —  ha  — 
Descluse  has  assured  me  that  this  time  at  least  I  really 
must  give  her  the  —  ha  —  victory." 

'•'  But,  my  dear  Canon,"  said  the  solicitor,  as  if  giving 
not  a  legal,  but  a  paternal  advice,  and  in  a  tone  full  of 
the  gravest  solicitude,  "  you  ouglit  not,  you  know.  I 
assure  you  that  a  victory  of  this  kind  is  not  to  be 
lightly  sacrificed.  Consider  now  the  money  value  df 
the  prizes  —  " 

"  Ha  !  Ha  !  "  laughed  the  Canon,  "  the  legal  mind 
always  runs  into  —  lia  —  practical  issues.  The  days  of 
chivalry  are  gone." 

"Well,  now,"  said  the  solicitor,  humbly,  "of  course, 
sir,  you  must  have  your  little  joke  ;  but  seriously  now, 
consider  the  importance  of  gaining  a  prize  in  such  a 
contest.  After  all,  you  know,  horticulture  is  a  branch 
of  lesthetics  ;  and  you  know,  sir,  with  your  vast  expeii- 
ence,  how  important  it  is  for  the  Churcli  nowadays  to 
be  represented,  and  represented  successfully,  before  our 
separated  brethren,  in  such  a  delightful  and  elevating 
and  refining  pursuit  as  the  culture  of  flowers." 

"Ah,  well,  jNlr.  Grilfiths  ;  but  chivalry  —  where  is 
chivalry  ?  " 

"Chivalry  is  all  very  well,"  said  Griffiths,  driving 
home  the  argument,  "  but  our  first  interest  is  —  our 
one  interest  is  —  the  Church.  And  consider  your  posi- 
tion—  the  leading  re])resentative  of  the  Church  in  this 
district — I  might  say  in  this  country.   See  what  a  dreadful 


58  LUKE   DELMEGE 

injury  to  religion  it  would  be  if  you  were  defeated, 

sir.      Of  course,   'tis  only  a  flower  ;    but  it's  defeat  ! 

and  the  Church,  sir,  mustn't  be  defeated  in  anything 

or  it  succumbs  in  all." 

"  There  is  something  in  what  you  say  —  ha  —  indeed," 

replied  the  Canon,  "■  and  I  shall  —  ha  —  give  the  matter 

furtlier  consideration.      But  take  a  glass  of  wine." 
"  Ah,  this  is  wine,"  said  Grifhths,  sniffing  the  glass 

and  holding  it  up  to  the  light.     "  Now,  if  I  may  be  so 

impolite  as  to  venture  to  guess,  I  should  say  that  wine 

cost  a  centum  at  least." 

"  Add — a  —  twenty,"  said  the  host. 

"I  thought  so.     Very  unlike  the  stuff  we  have  to 

drink  at  our  hotels,  even  on  Circuit.      Vinegar  and 

water,    and   a   little    logwood    to    colour  it.     This    is 

wine." 

''Mr.    Sumner,  you  are   taking  nothing.      Try  that 

Madeira  !  " 

Mr.  Sumner  was  saying  nothing,  but  he  was  steadily 
absorbing  vast  quantities  of  wine.  He  was  one  of  those 
calm,  beautiful  drinkers,  whose  senses  never  relaxed  for 
a  moment  whilst  the  new  must  was  j)oured  into  the  old 
bottle,  and  seemed  to  evaporate  as  speedily  as  it  was 
taken.  Luke  watched  him  wonderingly,  and  with  a 
certain  amount  of  admiration,  and  was  stricken  into 
silence  partly  by  the  surroundings,  which  to  him  were 
unique  and  awful,  partly  by  the  nature  of  the  conver- 
sation, which  tripped  lightly  from  the  muscles  and 
calves  of  athletes  to  the  fine  points  of  a  horse  ;  and 
from  the  age  of  a  certain  brand  of  wine  to  the  baromet- 
rical rise  and  fall  of  stocks  and  shares.  He  had  been 
hoping  in  the  beginning  that  the  course  of  conversation 
would  turn  on  some  of  those  subjects  that  were  of  in- 
terest to  himself  —  some  great  controverted  point  in 
the  literature  or  philosophy  of  the  past,  or  some  point 
of  heresy,  or  some  historical  fact  that  he  could  lay  hold 
on,  and  perhaps  enchain  the  interest  of  his  hearers. 
Wouldn't  some  one  say  "  Canossa,'  or  "  Occam,"  "  Libe- 
rius,"  or  even  "  Wegscheider  "  ?      Would  they  never 


A   NOVEL   THESIS  59 

turn  tlie  conversation  into  something  intellectual  or 
elevating-,  and  give  him  a  chance?  Once,  indeed,  Bar- 
bara, in  reply  to  an  observation  from  her  aunt  that 
she  was  killed  from  ennui  in  that  country  place,  said 
laughingly  :  — 

"  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  time  hangs  heavy  on  your  hands, 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate  ? 
Are  there  no  poor  about  your  lands  ?  " 

But,  alas  !  that  was  but  a  little  puff  of  intellectual 
smoke  that  speedily  vanished  in  the  clear  atmosphere  of 
utter  inanity.  And  Luke  was  bending  over  to  say  a 
complimentary  word  to  Barbara,  when  the  silent  signal 
was  given  and  the  ladies  arose.  Luke  was  so  absorbed 
in  what  he  was  saying  that  he  did  not  heed  a  gesture 
from  the  Canon.     Then  he  awoke  to  the  thunder  :  — 

"  Father  Delmege  !  " 
and  saw  the  Canon  pointing  angrily  to  the  door.  Poor 
Luke  !  He  liad  studied  all  his  rubrics  carefully,  and 
knew  them  down  to  every  bend  and  genuflection  ;  but 
he  had  never  been  told  of  this  rubric  before.  He 
blushed,  stammered,  kept  his  seat,  and  said  :  — 

"'  I  beg  your  pardon.      I  do  not  understand  —  " 

To  add  to  his  discomfiture,  he  found  that  Miss  "Wil- 
son's dress  had  got  entangled  around  liis  chair.  Blush- 
ing, liumbled,  confused,  he  tried  to  disentangk'  the  gray 
silk  ;  but  he  only  made  it  worse.  Then  the  Apollo 
arose  with  a  calm  smile,  raised  the  chair,  gave  the 
flounce  a  kick,  and,  opening  the  door  wdtli  a  bow  tliat 
would  have  made  Count  d'Orsay  die  with  envy,  ushered 
the  lauLrliinfT  ladies  from  the  dininer-room.  The  Canon 
was  so  pleased  with  the  achievement  that  he  almost 
forgave  Luke;  and  Luke  was  questioning  himself  an- 
grily:   Where   now   is   all   your    learning    and    useless 

lumber?     And  why  the do  not  the  i)rofessors  in 

our  colleges  teach  us  something  about  the  practical 
issues  of  daily  life  ? 

"  Anything  new  in  your  profession,  Louis  ?  "  said  the 


60  LUKE   DELMEGE 

Canon,  airily,  as  the  gentlemen  drew  their  chairs  to- 
gether and  lighted  their  cigars. 

"  Oh,  dear,  yes  !  "  said  Louis,  leisurely.  "  We  are 
always  forging  ahead,  you  know  ;  moving  on  with  ex- 
press speed,  whilst  you  gentlemen  of  the  Law  and  the 
Gospel  are  lumbering  heavily  along  in  the  old  ruts." 

"  Ha  !  Ha  !  "  laughed  the  Canon.  "  Very  good  in- 
deed !  Lumbering  along  in  the  old  ruts  !  And  what 
might  be  the  newest  discoveries  now  in  medical  science  ? 
Some  clever  way  of  shortening  human  life  ?  " 

"  Well,  no  !  We  are  beginning  to  touch  on  your 
province,  I  think.  Our  sappers  and  miners  are  begin- 
ning to  dig  under  your  foundations." 

"  But  you  won't  stir  the  grand  old  fabric,  Louis  ?  " 
said  Griffiths.  "  You  can't,  you  know.  You'll  find 
bones  and  skulls,  of  course  ;  that's  your  province  ;  but 
you'll  never  shake  the  foundations.     Will  he.  Canon  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear  no  !  Oh,  dear  no  !  "  said  the  Canon, 
feebly.  "  But  those  men  of  science  are  really  —  ha  — 
very  enterprising,  and,  indeed  —  ha  —  aggressive.  But 
I  cannot  see,  Louis,  how  your  noble  science  can  conflict 
with  theology.  The  schools  of  medicine  and  the  schools 
of  theology  are  —  ha  —  so  very  distinct." 

"They  merge  in  the  psychological  school,  I  should 
say,"  said  Louis.  "  And  j)sychology  becomes  physi- 
ology." 

At  last,  at  last,  Luke,  cometh  your  chance  !  Here 
is  what  you  have  been  dreaming  of  the  whole  evening. 
Psychology  !  The  very  word  he  had  rolled  under  his 
tongue  a  thousand  times  as  a  sweet  morsel.  The  soul  ! 
the  soul  !  Psyche,  his  goddess  !  whom  he  had  watched 
and  studied,  analyzed,  synthesized,  worshipped  with  all 
the  gods  of  science  from  the  "  master  of  those  who  know  " 
downwards.  No  hound  that  had  seen  or  scented  his 
quarry  was  ever  strung  to  such  tension  of  muscle  or 
nerve  as  Luke,  when  at  last  all  the  twilight  vistas 
opened,  and  he  saw  the  broad  fields  of  knowledge  and 
science  before  him,  and  Psyche,  Psyche,  like  Atalanta 
in  the  fields  at  Calydon. 


A   NOVEL    THESIS  61 

"  How  can  psychology  merge  in  physiology  ?  "  said 
Lnke,  with  dry  lips,  and  in  a  nervous  manner.  "  I 
alwa3's  considered  that  physiology  treated  only  of  animal 
mechanism." 

"And  psychology  treats  of?"  said  Louis  Wilson, 
blandly. 

''  Of — of  —  the  soul,  of  course,"  said  Luke. 

"  And  is  not  the  soul  a  part  of  the  animal  mecha- 
nism ?  "  said  his  antagonist. 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Luke.  "It  is  conjoined  with 
it  and  distinct  from  it." 

"  Conioined  with  it  I  where  ?  "  said  Louis.  "  I  have 
made  post-mortems  again  and  again,  and  I  assure  you, 
gentlemen,  I  have  discovered  every  other  part  of  human 
anatomy  ;  but  that  which  you  are  pleased  to  call  the 
soul,  I  have  never  found.  Wliere  is  it?  What  is  its 
location  ?  " 

"  Now,  now,  Louis,"  said  the  Canon,  with  feeble 
deprecation,  "this  is  going  far,  you  know.  But,  of 
course,  this  is  only  for  the  sake  of — ha  —  ha  —  argu- 
ment. This  is  only  a — ha  —  post-prandial  academic 
discussion.     Proceed,  Mv.  Delmege." 

Poor  Luke  was  now  getting  a  little  excited,  lie  had 
never  been  taught  that  tirst  of  accomplishments,  self- 
control  and  reserve.  Indeed,  he  had  been  so  accus- 
tomed to  success  in  the  thcxcs  that  had  been  arranged 
for  students  in  his  college,  that  he  quite  resented  the 
very  idea  of  being  opposed  or  catechised  by  tliis  young 
fop[)ish  doctor.  Wlien  he  folded  his  soutane  in  May- 
nuoth  and  said,  half-sarcastically,  in  the  scholastic 
form  : 

"Sic  nri/inii(>il(irls,  rloctissime  Dornine .'" 

his  antagonist  had  gone  down  pell-mell  before  liim. 
And  the  idea  of  this  young  freshman  attacking  the 
fortresses  of  Catholic  philosoi)hy  was  intolerable.  In  a 
Avortl,  Luke  was  losing  tem|)er. 

"  The  veriest  tyro  in  i)hih)so])liy,"  he  said  (it  was  a 
favourite  expression  of  his,  when  he  wanted  to  overwhelm 


62  LUKE   DELMEGE 

utterly  an  antagonist),  "  knows  that  the  soul  is  a  simple 
substance,  residing,  whole  and  indivisible,  in  every  part 
of  the  human  frame." 

"•  This  is  part  of  the  human  frame,"  said  Louis, 
pulling  a  long  black  hair  from  his  forehead,  "  is  my 
soul  there  ?  Then  go,  thou  soul,  into  everlasting  noth- 
ingness." He  plucked  the  hair  in  pieces  and  let  it 
fizzle  away  at  the  glowing  end  of  his  cigar. 

"  This  is  flippant,  if  not  worse,"  said  Luke.  "  No  one 
holds  that  a  separated  member  carries  with  it  the  soul." 

"  Do  you  not  hold  that  there  is  a  separate  creation 
for  each  human  soul  ?  " 

"  Yes.     That  is  of  faith." 

"  Where's  the  necessity  ?  If  life  springs  from  ante- 
cedent life  (that  is  your  strong  point  against  biologists), 
and  if  the  soul  is  existent  in  every  part,  when  there  is 
life,  does  not  the  soul  pass  on  to  the  new  life,  and  be- 
come the  animating  principle  in  its  embryonic  state  ?  " 

''  That  is  heresy,"  said  Luke.  "  That  is  the  heresy 
of  TertuUian.     St.  Thomas  —  " 

"  I  thought,"  said  his  antagonist,  blandly,  "  we  were 
arguing  as  to  facts,  and  not  as  to  opinions." 

"•  But  I  deny  that  opinions  are  opposed  to  facts,"  said 
Luke,  timidly. 

"  You  may  not  be  aware,"  said  Wilson,  "  that  the 
greater  part  of  your  treatises  on  Moral  Theology  are 
arranged  with  the  most  childish  ignorance  of  physio- 
logical facts  that  are  known  to  every  school-boy  who  has 
passed  his  first  medical." 

"  And  are  you  aware,"  said  Luke,  hotly,  "that  many 
of  your  profession  who  have  passed  their  last  medical 
are  wise  and  humble  enough  to  acknowledge  that  what 
you  call  facts  are  still  the  arcana  and  mysteries  of 
Nature  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  Wilson,  airily.  "  But  writers 
that  lay  down  moral  laws  for  the  world,  and  base  these 
laws  on  the  operations  of  Natural  Law,  should  try  to 
understand  these  latter  first.  By  the  way,  have  you 
read  anything  of  electro-biology  ?  " 


L  NOVEL    THESIS  G3 

"No  !  "  said  Luke,  humbly. 

"  Have  you  read  anything  about  psychic  forces  through 
Animal  Macfuetism  ?  " 

'•''  No,''  said  Luke. 

"  Have  you  heard  of  Reichenbach  and  his  theory  of 
Odic  Forces?  " 

J^uke  shook  his  head  humbly.  He  was  stunned  by 
the  noisy  emptiness  of  words. 

Wilson  threw  him  aside  as  a  worthless  antagonist  and 
addressed  Sumner. 

"•  Did  you  see  the  last  by  Maupassant,  Sumner  ?  " 

"The  last  you  lent  me,"  said  Sumner.  "It  is  pretty 
tattered  now.  But  really,  you  know,  Wilson,  I  think 
these  French  fellows  go  a  little  too  far,  you  know.  Fm 
not  squeamish,  you  know  ;  but  really,  you  know,  that 
fellow  makes  your  hair  stand  on  end." 

Wilson  laughed  rudely  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Men  of  the  world  mustn't  be  squeamish  about 
trifles  —  " 

"(Gentlemen,"  said  the  Canon,  "I  think  we  shall  join 
the  ladies  at  tea." 

"  I  shall  give  you  a  volume  by  Gabriele  d'Annunzio, 
our  latest  Italian  writer,"  Luke  heard  Wilson  saying  to 
Sumner,  as  he  stood  in  the  porch  to  finish  his  cigar. 
"  Pity  those  young  clerical  gentlemen  don't  read  up 
with  the  requirements  of  the  day." 

"  I  think  you  read  too  much,  Wilson,"  said  Sumner. 
"You  can't  keep  straight,  you  know,  if  you  are  too 
well  acquainted  with  these  things,  you  know." 

"  Sumner,  you  have  a  hard  head  for  liquor." 

"  It  is  not  in  the  power  of  whiskey  to  make  me  drunk," 
said  Sumner,  modestly. 

"  Well,  I  have  a  hard  head  in  other  matters,"  said 
Wilson.      "  \>y  the  way,  did  you  ever  try  laudanum  ?  " 

"No! ''said  Sumner.  "I  wouldn't  venture  beyond 
the  bounds  of  honest  liquor." 

"  You  ought.  Nothing  braces  a  man  like  it.  You 
see  there's  a  total  want  of  agility  in  tlicse  clergymen 
because    they  are  so  afraid    of    stimulants.     I'm  sure, 


64  LUKE  DELMEGE 

now,  my  uncle  would  be  almost  clever  ;  but,  you  notice, 
he  touches  nothing.    And  that  young  greenhorn — " 

"  Who  ?  " 

"That  young  clergyman  —  a  mere  farmer's  son  —  do 
you  know  that  there  is  not  on  earth  such  a  greenhorn 
as  a  clerical  student  ?  Now,  if  he  took  a  little  opium, 
according  to  De  Quincey's  prescription,  well  boiled,  and 
with  plenty  of  lemonade  or  orangeade,  he  would  be 
passable — " 

"  Well,  Louis,  you  bowled  him  over  certainly." 

"  Yaas  !  I  should  say  so.  And  good  Lord  !  what 
an  accent  !     I  wonder  will  he  sing  ?  " 


CHAPTER   VI 

ADIEUX 

Mortified  and  irritated,  vexed  at  himself  for  his 
shortcomings,  savage  with  others  for  their  unkindness, 
Luke  passed  into  the  drawing-room.  Somehow,  his 
anger  gave  a  tinge  of  pallor  to  his  In-own,  healthy  face, 
that  made  him  look  quite  interesting  ;  and  it  was  with 
something  like  kindness  that  Mrs.  Wilson  beckoned 
him  to  a  seat  near  herself  on  the  sofa,  and  chatted  affa- 
bly with  him  for  a  few  moments.  She  also  engaged 
his  services  in  helping  around  the  tea  from  a  dainty 
wicker-work  table ;  and  he  was  beginning  to  feel  a 
little  more  comfortable,  thouo^h  still  determined  to 
escape  at  tlie  lirst  opportunity,  when  the  Canon  asked 
liim  abruptly  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  the  music  on 
the  i)iano,  at  which  IJarbara  w'as  now  seated.  Lvd^e 
was  about  to  excuse  himself  by  saying  w^th  perfect 
truth  that  he  knew  nothing  about  music  ;  but  in  a 
weak  moment  he  rose,  and  whilst  Miss  Wilson's  lingers 
wandered  over  the  keys,  he  stood,  statue-like  and  mo- 
tionless, near  her.  In  a  few  seconds  she  nodded,  and 
lie  turned  the  leaf  witli  the  air  of  an  expert ;  and  then 
the  full  absurdity  of  tlie  situation  broke  suddenly  ujxm 
him.  and  dyed  neck  and  face  and  u]i  to  the  roots  of  hair 
in  deep  crimson  of  shame  and  confusion.  For  he  re- 
membered that  at  tlie  last  retreat  a  jiicture  of  a  worldly 
priest  was  held  up  to  their  reprobation  —  a  picture,  not 
too  higldy  coloured,  ])nt  grimly  painted  by  a  strong 
and  merciless  liand.  There  it  was,  lurid  and  ghastly, 
or  pitifully  ludicrous,  as  you  choose  or  your  mood  may 
F  66 


66  LUKE  DELMEGE 

be  —  the  limp,  unmuscular,  artificial  cleric,  who,  with 
all  the  insignia  of  Christ  and  the  Cross,  is  perpetually 
aping  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  world,  and  in 
dress  and  manner  and  conversation  is  forever  changing 
and  shifting,  like  a  mime  on  the  stage.  Ah  !  Luke  ! 
Luke  !  and  hither  hast  thou  come,  even  on  the  day  of 
thy  first  Mass.  Burning  with  shame  and  self-scorn,  he 
had  sense  enough  left  to  whisper,  "  You  will  excuse 
me  !  "  and  retreated  ignominiously  to  a  corner,  where, 
over  the  pages  of  an  album,  he  thought  unutteral)le 
things.  He  woke  up,  after  what  appeared  to  be  an 
hour,  by  hearing  the  Canon  say:  — 

"That  duet  from  —  ah — Trovatore^  Barbara;  or, 
perhaps,  Louis  would  sing,  'Hear  Me  —  ha  —  Gentel 
Maritana ' !  " 

The  two  voices  blended  beautifully,  and  at  another 
time  Luke  would  have  listened  with  pleasure,  but  not 
to-night.  Oh,  no  !  it  has  been  a  day  of  humiliation 
and  suffering,  and  even  the  gentle  spirit  of  Music  for 
once  fails  to  bring  peace  and  healing  on  her  wings. 

There  was  a  hushed  and  whispered  colloquy  between 
Barbara  and  her  mother,  and  then  the  former,  with 
some  hesitation,  approached  to  where  Luke  was  sitting, 
and  said  timidly,  holding  her  hands  pleadingly  before 
her :  — 

"  Mother  would  like  to  hear  you  sing,  Father.  I'm 
sure  you  sing  well  —  " 

"I  assure  you,  Miss  Wilson,  I'm  quite  unaccustomed 
to  —  " 

"Now,  I  know  you  have  a  lovely  baritone  from  the 
way  you  said  the  '  Prayers  '  to-day.     Do,  Father  !  " 

What  could  he  sing  ?  "  Believe  Me,  If  All  ?  "  Hush  ! 
"Oh  !  Doth  Not  a  Meeting  Like  This  Make  Amends?" 
Absurd  I  "  There's  a  Bower  of  Roses  by  Bendameer's 
Stream?"  Sickly  and  sentimental!  Yes,  he  will,  by 
Jove  !  He'll  take  a  subtle  revenge  by  ruffling  the  pla- 
cidity of  this  smooth  and  aristocratic  circle.  Won't  they 
laugh  when  they  hear  it  at  home  ?  Won't  Father  Pat 
smite  his  leg  like  a  Vulcan,  and  declare  that  it  was  the 


ADIEUX  67 

best  thing  he  ever  heard  in  his  life?     But  it  will  be 
impolite  and  shocking  !     No  matter  I     Here  goes  ! 

And  drawing  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  and  lean- 
ing one  arm  on  the  mantelpiece,  Luke  sang  out  in  the 
noble  baritone,  that  had  often  echoed  at  Christmas 
plays  around  tlie  gloomy  halls  of  Maynooth  — 

"  From  Howth  away  to  famed  Dunboy, 

By  Kerry's  beetlinj^  coasts, 
With  liglitniiii;-  speed  the  summons  flew 

To  marshal  Freedom's  hosts. 
From  Limerick's  old  historic  walls 

To  Boyne's  ill-omened  tide 
The  long-watclied  signal  swelled  their  hearts  }  , . 

With  Vengeance,  Hope,  and  Pride."  j"   *  ' 

The  Canon  was  gasping  and  his  face  lengthening  as 
in  a  spoon ;  the  ladies  smiled  in  horror  ;  Apollo  looked 
up,  angry  and  contemptuous ;  Griffiths  was  about  to 
say  :  — 

"  Now,  you  know,  Father  Delmege,  that's  rank  trea- 
.jon,  you  know" — but  on  went  Luke,  his  rich  voice 
thunderinfj  out  the  sono-  of  rebellion  in  the  ears  of 
these  excellent  loyalists  :  — 

"  They're  mustering  fast  —  see,  Slievenamon 

Its  serried  lines  displays ; 
Mark  !iow  their  l)urnished  weapons  gleam 

In  morning's  ruddy  blaze; 
While  proudly  floats  the  flashing  green 

AVlicre  purl  the  blague  and  Lee. 
Hurrah  !  mv  boys,  we've  lived,  thank  God,  }  ,  ■ 

To  set  the  Old  Land  free  !  "  y"    '*• 

The  Canon  was  shocked  beyond  expression ;  yet  a 
tender  old-time  feeling  seemed  to  film  his  eyes,  for  the 
Mague  was  rolling  past  his  door,  and  the  summit  of 
Slievenamon  could  be  seen  from  the  window.  Luke 
rapidly  shook  hands  with  the  ladies,  whilst  Barbara,  in 
her  enthusiasm,  asked  :  — 

"  Who  wrote  it  ?  You  miist  give  me  the  words  and 
the  music,  Father  !  'Tis  worth  all  the  operas  ever 
written." 


68  LUKE  DELMEGE 

He  nodded  to  Griffiths,  took  no  notice  of  the  Apollo, 
shook  hands  with  the  Canon  and  thanked  him  for  his 
hospitality,  and  dashed  out  into  the  cool  air  with  a 
throbbing  heart  and  a  burning  forehead. 

He  was  pushing  along  in  his  swift  striding  way,  and 
had  reached  the  road,  when  he  heard  a  flutter  of  silk 
behind  him  ;  and  there  was  Barbara  Wilson,  a  little  out 
of  breath  and  very  white.      He  waited. 

"  Father,"  she  said  pleadingly,  "  I  understand  you  are 
going  on  the  English  mission  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said  wonderingly. 

"  Might  I  ask  where  will  3'ou  be  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say,"  he  said,  "  but  in  one  of  the  south- 
eastern counties." 

"  Thank  God,"  she  said  fervently.  Then  after  some 
hesitation,  and  gulping  down  some  emotion,  '•'  I  want 
you  to  make  a  promise." 

-If  I  may." 

"  You  may  meet  my  brother  in  England.  He  has 
been  in  Brighton,  an  assistant  to  a  physician  there. 
He  is  now  in  London  attending  St.  Thomas'  Hospital. 
If  you  meet  him,  will  you  be  kind  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  much  attracted  by  your  brother,  Miss  Wil- 
son," Luke  said  bluntly. 

"  I  know  ;  but  you  are  a  priest,  and  his  soul  is  at 
stake.  You  do  not  know,  but  I  am  afraid  that  he  is  — 
that  he  is  —  oh  !  my  God  !  weak  in  his  faith.  You  may 
be  able  to  help  him  I  " 

"  Of  course,  if  I  come  across  him  in  the  course  of  my 
ministrations  —  " 

"  The  Good  Shepherd  sou[/ht  out  the  lost  sheep,"  said 
Barbara. 

"  But,  you  know,  one  does  not  like  a  repulse,"  said 
Luke. 

"  It  is  a  question  of  a  soul,"  said  Barbara,  her  eyes 
filling  with  tears. 

"  Say  no  more.  Miss  Wilson,"  said  Luke,  "  you  shame 
me.  I  heard  your  brother  give  expression  to  some 
shocking   things   this   evening;    and   I  confess  I  con- 


ADIEUX  69 

ceived  a  strong  and  violent  aversion  to  him  ;  but  now 
that  you  have  appealed  — "" 

"  Thank  you,  oh,  so  much  !  And  there's  something 
else  about  poor  Louis  —  " 

She  put  her  fingers  to  her  lip,  musing.  Then,  after 
a  pause,  she  said  :  "•  Never  mind.  You'll  find  it  out  for 
yourself  ;   but  you  promise  ?  " 

"  I  promise,"  he  said. 

"  And  you  won't  allow  his  arrogance  and  pride  to 
repel  you  ?  " 

"  I  liope  not,"  said  Luke. 

"  God  bless  you  !  "  she  said  fervently,  clasping  his  hand. 

"  Hallo,  old  man  !  Alive  and  kicking  ? "  was  the 
cheery  welcome  of  Father  Pat,  who,  snugly  ensconced 
in  a  capacious  arm-chair  in  the  parlour  at  Lisnalee,  was 
stroking  down  the  fair  curls  of  a  little  lad,  an  orphan 
child  of  a  younger  brother,  whom  Mike  Delmege  had 
adopted.  How  calm,  and  simple,  and  homely  the  little 
parlour  looked  to  Luke's  eyes,  dazzled  and  dimmed  by 
the  splendours  of  the  Canon's  house,  and  half-blinded 
from  tlie  emotions  aroused  during  the  evening.  The 
image  remained  imprinted  on  the  retentive  retina  of 
Luke's  memory  for  many  a  day,  and  came  up,  amongst 
strange  scenes  and  sights,  to  comfort  him  with  its  holy 
beauty.  Often,  in  after  years,  when  sitting  at  the 
tables  of  noblemen,  who  traced  their  blood  back  to  the 
invaders,  who  bit  the  sands  at  Hastings,  that  cloud- 
dream  of  his  seaside  home  rose  soft  and  Ix'autiful  as  a 
piece  of  enchantment  raised  to  the  witchery  of  soft 
music  ;  and  often,  on  the  streets  of  Soutliwark  at  mid- 
night, when  the  thunder  of  the  mighty  stream  of  human- 
ity rolled  turljid  and  stormy  along  the  narrow  streets, 
did  lie  see,  as  in  a  far-off  picture,  nari'owed  in  the  i)er- 
spective  of  memory,  the  white  farmliouse  above  the 
breakers,  and  the  calm,  beautiful,  twiliglit  holiness  that 
slept  above  it  —  a  canopy  of  peace  and  rest.  He  saw 
the  two  windows  that  ventilated  tlie  parlour  —  the  one 
looking  northward  over  soft  gray  meadows  and  golden 


70  LUKE  DELMEGE 

cornfields,  that  stretched  away  till  they  were  lost  in  the 
jjurple  and  blue  of  the  shadowy,  mysterious  mountains  ; 
the  other  looking  southward  over  masses  of  purple 
heather,  to  where  the  everlasting  sea  shimmered  in  sil- 
ver all  day  long,  and  put  on  its  steel-blue  armour  against 
the  stars  of  night.  There  was  the  tea-table,  with  its 
cups  and  saucers  and  its  pile  of  dainty  griddle-cakes, 
cut  in  squares,  and  fresh  from  the  hands  of  Margery  ; 
and  golden  butter,  the  best  that  was  made  in  the  Grolden 
Vale;  and  thick,  rich  cream;  and  fragrant  strawberries, 
nestling  in  their  grape-like  leaves.  And  there  was  his 
good  father,  a  stern  old  Irish  Catholic  of  the  Puritan 
type,  silent  and  God-fearing  and  just,  who  never  allowed 
a  day  to  pass  without  an  hour  of  silent  communion  with 
God,  in  his  bedroom  after  the  midday  meal,  and  on  whose 
lands  the  slightest  whisper  of  indelicacy  was  punished 
by  immediate  expulsion.  There  sat  the  kindly  mother, 
her  beautiful  white  hair  arranged  under  her  snowy  cap, 
and  the  eternal  beads  in  her  hands.  There,  gliding  to 
and  fro,  was  Margery — a  perfect  Martha  of  housewifely 
neatness  and  alertness ;  and  Lizzie,  the  grave,  thoughtful 
Mary  of  the  household  ;  and  there  was  Father  Pat,  best 
and  kindest  and  truest  of  friends,  to  whose  arms  chil- 
dren sprang  for  affection,  and  in  whose  hands  the  wild- 
est collie  or  sheepdog  was  glad  to  lay  his  wet  nozzle, 
after  he  had  valorously  defended  his  premises.  Luke 
flung  himself  into  the  arm-chair  by  the  southern  window 
and  asked  Margery  for  a  "  decent  cup  of  tea." 

"•  Well,  I  suppose  now  you  are  fit  to  dine  with  the 

Duke  of  N ,"  said  Father  Pat.     "  You  have  passed 

your  entrance  examination  into  decent  society  to-night." 

"  It  wasn't  so  severe  an  ordeal  as  I  supposed,"  said 
Luke.      '^  The  Canon  was  kind  ;   and  Miss  Wilson  —  " 

Margery  paused  with  the  teapot  high  in  air. 

"Miss  Wilson  made  everything  easy." 

Margery  drew  a  long,  deep  breath  of  doubt,  and  shook 
her  head. 

'•'  Do  you  know  what  I  think,  Father   Pat  ? "    said 
Luke. 


ADIEUX  71 

"  No.     Go  on,"  said  Father  Pat. 

"  That  there's  a  lot  of  real  kindness  under  all  the 
Canon's  formalism  ;  and  that  he  is  at  heart  a  good- 
natured  man." 

"  Humph  !  "  said  Father  Pat.  "  How  did  you  come 
to  that  conclusion?  For  I  have  longer  experience  of 
him  thyn  you,  and  I  have  not  reached  it  yet." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Luke.  "It  is  a  little 
thing ;  but  it  is  little  things  that  tell.  A  straw,  you 
know.     I  was  singing  —  " 

"  You  were  siufjinsf?"  said  Father  Pat. 

"  Did  you  really  sing  ?  "  said  Margery. 

"What  did  you  sing,  Father  Luke?"  said  Lizzie, 
who  was  a  more  obedient  pupil  than  her  sister. 

"  I  was  just  saying  that  when  I  was  singing  '  The 
Muster '  —  " 

Father  Pat  jumped  from  his  chair. 

"  Yon  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  sang  that  red-hot 
rebel  song  in  the  Canoii's  presence  ?  "  he  said. 

"Every  line  of  it,"  replied  Luke,  "and  I  have  prom- 
ised the  words  and  the  music  to  Barbara  Wilson."  He 
looked  in  a  quizzical  way  at  his  sister. 

"Well,  Pm  blessed,"  said  Father  Pat,  resuming  his 
seat,  "  but  that  beats  Banagher.  Wait  till  I  tell  Tim 
and  Martin." 

He  looked  at  Luke  with  a  certain  feeling  of  awe  dur- 
ing the  rest  of  the  evening. 

"Well,  I  was  saying,"  said  Luke,  coolly,  "that  I 
thought  —  perhaps  'twas  only  imagination — that  the 
Canon's  eyes  softened,  and  that  something  like  kindli- 
ness came  into  them,  as  from  the  memory  of  the  past." 

"  Ay,  indeed  !  and  so  well  there  might,"  said  Mrs. 
Delmege.  "  I  Avell  remember  when  there  wasn't  a 
more  tinder  or  more  loving  priest  in  the  diocese  than 
you.  Father  Maurice  Murray.  Sure  'twas  well  known 
that  his  sister  had  to  lave  him  because  he  liad  not  two 
shoes  alike  ;  and  he  used  to  stale  the  mate  out  of  the 
pot  to  give  it  to  the  poor.'' 

"I  mind  well  the  day,"  said  old  Mike  Delmege,  in  a 


72  LUKE  DELMEGE 

musing  way,  as  if  he  was  trying  to  call  up  a  fast-van- 
ishing  picture,  "  when  he  wint  in,  and  took  up  that 
poor  girl.  Bride  Downey  (she  is  now  the  mother  of  the 
finest  childhre  in  the  parish),  out  of  her  sick-bed,  sheets, 
blankets,  and  all,  and  she  reeking  with  the  typhus,  the 
Lord  betune  us  and  harm,  and  spotted  all  over  like  the 
measles,  and  took  her  over  and  put  her  in  the  van  for 
the  hospital,  while  all  the  people  stood  away  in  fright, 
and  even  the  man  from  the  workhouse  wouldn't  go 
near  her.  And  it  was  you,  Canon  Murray,  that  arranged 
her  bed  in  that  workhouse  van  ;  and  sure  you  took  the 
faver,  and  went  near  dying  yourself  at  the  time." 

"He's  not  the  same  man,  Mike,  since  thin.  They 
say  the  faver  turned  his  head,  and  he  got  tetched,"  said 
Mrs.  Delmege. 

"  No  !  but  his  grand  sister,  who  ran  away  from  the 
sickness,  and  wint  up  to  Dublin,  where  she  got  into  a 
castle  or  something,  and  married  a  big  man,  'tis  she 
that  turned  the  poor  man's  head." 

"  I  wish  she  had  turned  it  the  right  way,"  said  Father 
Pat,  "  for  certainly  'tis  screwed  on  the  wrong  way  now." 

"  Father  Martin  says,  too,  that  he  is  a  rale  good  man 
under  all  his  airs  and  nonsense  —  " 

"  Father  Martin  ?  No  one  minds  him,"  said  Father 
Pat  ;  "  he'd  speak  well  of  an  informer  or  a  landgrabber." 

"  Why,  thin,  now.  Father  Pat,  no  one  knows  as  well 
as  your  reverence  that  there  'ud  be  many  a  poor  family 
on  the  roadside  to-day  but  for  the  same  Canon.  Sure 
they  say  that  when  they  see  his  grand  writing  up  in 
Dublin,  with  the  turkey-cock  on  the  top  of  the  letther, 
and  two  swords  crossed,  that  they'd  give  him  all  he 
ever  asked  for.  And  sure  whin  the  Widow  Gleeson 
was  served  last  autumn,  and  there  was  nothing  before 
her  but  the  workhouse,  and  the  Canon  wrote  to  the 
agent,  but  he  had  only  plain  paper  without  the  turkey- 
cock,  they  took  no  more  notice  of  him  than  if  he  was 
an  ordinary  poor  counthry  parish  priest.  What  did  he 
do  ?  He  took  the  train  up  to  Dublin,  and  walked  into 
the   office.     Phew  !  whin  they  saw   kis  grand  figure, 


ADIEUX  73 

they  ran  into  rat-holes  before  him.  Believe  you  me, 
Father  Pat,  there  are  very  few  priests  in  the  country 
can  make  the  Canon's  boast,  that  no  little  child  will 
ever  sleep  in  his  parish  without  a  cover  betune  it  and 
the  stars." 

"  That's  all  right,  Mike,"'  said  Father  Pat  ;  "  but  why 
doesn't  he  keep  his  grand  airs  for  grand  people  ?  —  " 

"  Why,"  said  Mike  Delmege,  "  sure  he  must  practise  ; 
and  where  would  he  practise  but  on  you  and  me  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  might  keep  them  for  Sundays  and  holi- 
days," said  Margery,  wlio  hated  the  whole  lot,  "  or  when 
his  errand  sister  and  niece  come  down  from  Dublin,  and 
speak  plain  to  plain  people." 

<■'  True,  iSIargery,"  said  Father  Pat  ;  "  we're  a  plain, 
simple  people,  and  we  want  phxin,  simple  priests." 

P)Ut  somehow  Margery  didn't  like  that  either. 

''Luke,"  said  Father  Pat,  buttoning  up  his  coat,  "do 
you  mean  to  say  you're  not  joking,  and  that  you  sang 
'The  Muster  '  to-night  ?  " 

"I  was  never  so  serious  in  my  life,"  said  Luke. 

"You  sang  it  all?" 

"Every  line  !  " 

"  Down  to  — 

*' '  No  more  as  craven  slaves  we  bend 
To  despot,  king,  or  queen; 
God  sliields  the  riolit,  —  strike  sure  and  fast, 
'Tis  for  our  native  Green.'  " 

"  Quite  so  !  " 

"  And  he  didn't  get  a  fit  ?  " 

"Not  uj)  to  the  time  I  was  leaving." 

"  Well,  he  has  got  one  now.  Fll  have  a  sick-call  to 
him  to-night.  By  Jove  !  what  will  Tim  and  Martin 
say  ?  Well,  let  me  see  !  You're  off  on  Friday.  Tim 
will  have  you  to-morrow  ;  ^NLirtin  on  Tuesday  :  you'll 
be  with  me  on  Wednesday.  We'll  leave  him  to  you, 
ma'am,  on  Tliursday.      Is  that  all  right  ?  " 

"All  right,"  said'  Luke. 

"  The  best  crachure  that  ever  lived,"  said  Mrs.   Deb 


f4  LUKE  DELMEGE 

mege,  as  Father  Pat  strolled  down  the  moonlit  field. 
Just  at  the  stile  he  thought  of  something  and  came 
back.  They  were  all  kneeling,  and  Luke  was  reciting 
the  Rosary.  Father  Pat  heard  the  murmur  of  the 
voices,  and  paused.  And  there  outside  the  window  he 
took  out  his  own  Rosary  beads  and  joined  in  that 
blessed  prayer  that  echoes  night  after  night  from  end 
to  end  of  Ireland.  Then  he  stole  away  quietly  and 
mounted  the  stile. 

"  By  Jove  !  "  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  crossed  shadow 
after  shadow  from  the  trees  on  the  high  hedges,  "I 
believe  he's  in  earnest.  But  who'd  ever  believe  it  ? 
What  will  Tim  and  Martin  say?  We'll  be  talking 
about  it  till  Christmas." 

On  Tuesday  Luke  called  to  see  the  Canon  and  make 
his  adieux.  He  was  not  quite  so  nervous  as  on  previ- 
ous occasions,  but  he  expected  to  receive  a  severe  repri- 
mand and  a  long  lecture  on  his  future  conduct.  Nor 
was  he  disappointed. 

"  I  think  it  my  duty,"  said  the  Canon,  after  they  had 
exchanged  preliminaries,  "  to  say  —  ha  —  that  there 
were  a  few  things  at  our  little  —  domestic  meeting  on 
Sunday,  which  I  —  ha  —  could  hardly  approve  of.  Is 
it  possible  that  you  were  never  —  ha  —  instructed  by 
your  professors  to  rise  with  the  ladies  after  dinner,  and 
hold  the  door  open  as  they  —  ha  —  departed  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  only  possible,  but  a  fact,"  said  Luke,  with 
the  old  contentious  spirit  of  logic-chopping  coming 
back  to  him.  "  Besides,  sir,  I  was  engrossed  at  the 
time,  and  didn't  hear  you  say  '  Grace.' " 

This  was  really  good  for  Luke  ;  but  he  didn't  see 
how  his  rapier  struck  home. 

"  I  can  really  hardly  credit  it,"  said  the  Canon.      "  It 
is  painful  to  reflect  that  we  alone  should  be  supposed 
to  learn,  by  —  ha  —  some  kind  of  intuition,  the  ameni 
ties  of  social  intercourse." 

The  Canon  was  so  pained  that  for  a  few  moments 
there  was  dead  silence,  broken  only  by  the  ticking  of 
the  clocks. 


ADIEUX  75 

"  Then,"  he  resumed,  at  length,  "  your  rencontre  with 
my  —  ha  —  clever  nephew  was  hardly  a  happy  one.  I 
thought  the  interrelations  between  body  and  spirit  were 
part  of  your  —  ha  —  philosophical  curriculum." 

"  Your  nephew  was  Christian  enough  to  deny  that 
there  was  such  a  thing  as  soul  at  all,"  said  Luke,  flush- 
ing. The  idea  of  being  catechised  on  philosophy  by 
this  old  man,  who  probably  had  never  heard  of  a  more 
recent  writer  than  Tongiorgi  or  Liberatore  !  And  all 
this  to  a  "  First  of  First  "  ! 

"  Ha  !  that  was  only  for  a  post-prandial  argument," 
laughed  the  Canon.  "But  you  lost  temper  and  got 
confused.  And  you  never  heard  of  these  —  ha — Odic 
forces  ?  Dear  me  !  What  are  our  professors  doing  ? 
And  with  what  singular  equipments  they  furnish  our 
young  men  for  the  battle  of  life  !  " 

There  was  another  spell  of  silence,  during  wdiich 
Luke  drew  up  to  the  bar  of  justice,  and  solemnly  con- 
demned his  professors  as  a  set  of  "effete  old  fossils." 

"  I  should  hardly,"  said  the  Canon,  resuming,  "  care 
to  allude  to  that  —  ah — ill-timed  and  rather  vulgar  — 
melody   to  wliich   you    treated    us ;    but  you  are  —  ha 

—  going  to  England,  and   3'our   mission  will    be  —  ha 

—  inoperative  and  ineffectual  if  you  import  into  the 
ministrations  of  your  daily  ministry  sueli  treasonable 
principles  as  those  contained  in  that  —  ha — street- 
baUad.  You  were  never  taught  operatic  music  in 
Maynooth  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  T^uke  ;   "it  was  sternly  interdicted." 

"Dear  me  I  how  reactionary  !  And  it  is  so^ha  — 
refining.  Did  you  notice  that  pretty  duet,  '  Ai  nostri 
monti'?"  'I'he  Canon  placed  tlie  tips  of  his  fingers 
together. 

"  Yes,  it  was  pretty,"  murmured  Luke. 

"  And  my  nephew's  rendering  of  '  Hear  j\[e,  Gen — tel 
Maritana'?" 

"  I  did  not  follow  that,"  said  Luke. 

"And  then  to  compare  that  fiery  Marseillaise,  which 
you  so  unwisely,  but,  indeed,  rather  melodiously  ren- 


76  LUKE  DELMEGE 

dered  !  Do  you  think  now  really  —  ha  —  that  '  Hurrah, 
me  boys,'  is  an  expression  suited  to  a  drawing-room 
audience,  or  do  you  not  see  that  it  would  be  more  fit- 
ting in  a  street-corner  ballad  or  the  heavy  atmosphere 
of  a  —  ha  —  tap-room  ?  " 

Luke  was  silent  and  angry. 

"  It  is  quite  possible,"  continued  the  Canon,  "  that 
you  will  be  thrown  a  good  deal  into  —  ha  —  English 
society.  You  may  be  invited  to  dine  with  the  —  ha  — 
aristocracy,  or  even  the  —  ha — nobility.  I  hope,  my 
dear  young  friend,  that  you  will  never  forget  yourself 
so  far  as  to  introduce  into  such  lofty  and  refined  circles 
such  dithyrambic  and  —  ha  —  revolutionary  ballads  as 
that  under  discussion." 

Luke  said  nothing,  but  continued  tracing  the  pattern 
of  the  carpet. 

"  You  must  sink  your  extreme  national  sensibilities," 
said  the  Canon,  "in  the  superior  ambitions  of  the 
Church,  and  take  care  not  to  offend  the  prejudices  of 
our  dear  English  brethren  by  too-pronounced  references 
to  those  —  ha  —  political  issues  on  which  we  —  ha  — 
differ." 

There  was  truth  in  all  that  the  Canon  was  saying, 
though  put  rather  brutally,  and  Luke  had  only  to  listen. 
Then  there  was  a  surprising  change  of  front. 

"  I  have  written  to  the  Bishop  and  obtained  the 
requisite  permission  for  you  to  celebrate  three  Masses  in 
your  father's  house,  not  only  now,  but  on  all  subsequent 
occasions  when  you  may  —  ha  —  be  resident  in  your 
paternal  home  —  " 

"  Oh,  thank  you  so  much,  Canon,"  said  Luke,  most 
gratefully  ;   "that's  a  great  favour." 

The  Canon  went  on,  not  noticing  the  ebullition. 

"As  I  was  saying  —  ha  —  I  think  this  arrogation  of 
rights  that  are  parochial  seems  hardly  consistent  with 
Canon  I^aw  ;  but  I  have  not  insisted  too  warmly  on  my 
privileges  as  parish  priest,  lest  I  should  seem  wanting 
in  the  respect  due  to  the  lofty  dignity  of  the  episcopal 
bench.     But  I  took  —  ha  —  the  opportunity  of  remon- 


ADIEUX  77 

strating  with  His  Lordship  for  having  set  aside  one  of 
my  parishioners,  and  selected  one  of  ratlier  mediocre 
abilities,  if  I  am  rightly  informed,  for  a  position  in  the 
diocesan  seminary  which  demands  both  talent  and  char- 
acter.'" 

Luke  was  at  first  bewildered.  Then  he  saw  through 
the  Canon's  kindness  beneath  his  coat  of  buckram. 

''I'm  sure  Lm  greatly  obliged  to  you,  sir,  for  such 
trouble.  I  confess  I  did  feel  some  annoyance  at  first, 
but  now  I  should  prefer  to  go  to  England." 

"And  I  quite  approve  of  your  decision,"  said  the 
Canon,  suavely  ;  "  indeed,  it  is  one  of  the  chief  regrets 
of  my  life  that  I  was  unable  to  graduate  on  the  English 
mission.  Nevertheless,  the  slight  to  my  parishioner 
remains,  and  I  shall  not  forget  it." 

Here  the  Canon  sank  into  a  reverie,  as  if  meditating 
a  subtle  revenge  against  the  Bishop. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  waking  up  suddenly,  "  any- 
thing of  the  science  of  heraldry  ?  " 

"•  No,"  said  Luke,  promptly. 

"  That's  a  very  serious  loss  to  you,"  replied  the 
Canon  ;  "  what  did  you  learn,  or  how  did  you  employ 
your  time  ?  " 

"  To  tell  the  truth,  Em  beginning  to  think,"  said 
Luke,  "that  whatever  I  learned  is  so  much  useless  lum- 
ber, and  that  I  must  get  rid  of  it  somehow  and  commence 
all  over  again." 

"  A  very  proper  resolution,''  said  the  Canon.  "  Now, 
let  me  see  !  —  Uelmege  !  That  must  be  a  French  or 
Norman  name.  Could,  your  family  have  been  Hugue- 
nots ?  " 

"Tliey  were  Palatines,"  said  Luke.  "They  lived 
over  there  at  Ballyorgan  in  the  valleys,  and  became 
Catholics  several  generations  back." 

"  How  very  interesting  !  "  said  the  Canon.  "  Our 
family,  as  you  are  aware,  are  Scotch  —  ^Murray,  Moray. 
It  was  one  of  my  ancestors  who  held  the  painter  of  the 
boat  for  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  when  she  was  escaping 
from  that  castle,  you  know  ;  and  it  was  the  great  queen 


78  LUKE  DELMEGE 

who,  extending  her  gloved  hand  to  my  —  ha  —  ancestor, 
gave  our  family  its  motto.  '  Murray,'  she  said,  '  Mur- 
ray, sans  tache.'  I  hope,"  continued  the  Canon,  after 
a  pause,  ••'  that  I  and  my  family  will  never  bring  a  blot 
upon  the  fair  escutcheon  of  our  noble  house." 

Luke  did  not  know  exactly  what  to  reply,  but  he 
was  saved  the  trouble  ;  for  the  Canon  rose,  and  saying, 
in  his  most  grandiose  manner,  "■  that  he  understood 
it  was  customary  to  demand  —  ha  —  a  young  priest's 
blessing,"  to  Luke's  consternation,  the  old  man  knelt 
humbly  on  the  carpet.  Luke  repeated  the  words,  but 
dared  not,  from  old  veneration,  touch  the  white  hair. 
And  the  Canon,  rising,  placed  an  envelope  in  his  hands, 
and  said  :  — 

^  When  you  have  said  your  three  Masses,  kindly  say 
ten  Musses  for  me  !  Good-bye  !  I  shall  hope — ha  — 
sometimes  to  hear  of  you  from  your  excellent  father. 
Good-bye  !  " 

The  astonished  and  bewildered  young  priest  opened 
the  envelope  when  he  had  passed  out  of  sight  of  the 
presbytery,  and  took  out,  with  mingled  feelings  of  sur- 
prise and  gratitude,  a  note  for  five  pounds. 

"  'Tis  a  queer  world,"  said  Luke.  "  I  wonder  when 
shall  I  understand  it."  If  you  value  your  peace  of  mind, 
Luke,  let  the  mighty  problem  alone !  It  has  vexed 
humanity  from  the  beginning,  and  shall  remain  insolu- 
ble to  the  end.  Find  your  work  and  do  it.  But  who 
was  ever  content  with  this?  Or  what  greatest  sage 
was  ever  satisfied  to  look  at  the  Sphinx  of  life  without 
asking  the  meaning  in  her  eternal  eyes? 


CHAPTER   VII 
EN   ROUTE 

The  next  few  days  passed  pleasantly  and  cheerfully 
for  Luke.  The  inestimable  privilege  of  being  able  to 
say  Mass  in  his  father's  house  blessed  and  hallowed  the 
entire  day  ;  and  if  occasionally  he  allowed  himself  to  be 
tormented  by  the  accidents  and  circumstances  of  life,  or 
by  grave  questionings  about  men  and  their  ways,  all 
these  vexatious  troubles  evaporated  the  moment  lie  sat 
with  his  three  clerical  friends  ;  and  all  jarring  and  dis- 
sonant sounds  were  merged  and  disappeared  in  the  glo- 
rious dithyramb  of  friendship. 

The  three  friends  were  known  in  tlie  diocese  as  the 
"Inseparables."  They  formed  a  narrow  and  exclusive 
circle  of  themselves,  and  all  candidates  for  admission 
were  sternly  blackballed.  They  dined  together  and 
supped  together  on  all  festive  occasions.  They  took 
their  summer  holidays  together  at  Lisdoonvarna ;  and 
there  they  insisted  that  their  rooms  should  be  on  the 
same  corridor  and  adjacent,  and  that  tlieir  chairs  shouhl 
be  placed  together  at  the  same  table.  At  Kilkee,  which 
is  popularly  supposed  to  be  the  liygienic  supplement  of 
Lisdoonvarna,  just  as  the  cold  douche  is  supposed  to 
wind  up  a  Turkish  bath,  they  bathed  in  the  same  pool 
or  pollock  hole,  went  together  to  Looji  Head,  or  the 
Natural  Bridges  of  Ross,  f(x)led  around  during  the  hot 
day  together ;  and  if  they  ventured  on  a  game  of  billiards 
after  dinner,  two  played  and  the  other  marked.  If  any 
one  else  came  in  or  interfered,  tlu'  three  talked  away 
together.  At  home,  they  were  equally  e::clusive.  Every 
Sunday  evening,  winter  and  summer,  they  met,  to  "  cele- 

79 


80  LUKE  DELMEGE 

brate  the  Eleusinian  mysteries,"  said  jealous  outsiders, 
but  in  reality  to  dine  ;  and  the  dinner  on  each  occasion, 
and  at  each  table,  never  varied  —  chickens  and  ham, 
followed  by  a  tiny  piece  of  roast  mutton  ;  one  dish, 
generally  of  apples,  as  second  course,  and  that  was  all. 
Tlie  only  occasion  wlien  there  was  a  shadow  of  a  cloud 
between  them  was  when  Father  Martin  got  a  new  house- 
keeper, and  she  treated  her  guests  to  what  she  was 
pleased  to  call  a  chancellor-pudding.  The  guests  looked 
at  it  suspiciously,  but  declined  to  partake.  Father 
Martin,  always  gentle  and  polite,  made  profuse  apolo- 
gies. "  Give  me  the  old  horse  for  the  long  road,"  said 
Father  Tim.  So,  too,  the  "Inseparables"  held  the 
same  opinions  on  politics,  the  only  difference  being  that 
Father  Martin  looked  upon  such  things  from  a  theoreti- 
cal and  academic  standpoint,  whereas  Father  Tim  held 
himself  passive,  and  Father  Pat  was  disposed  to  be 
fiercely  and  relentlessly  aggressive.  Some  said  it  was 
genuine,  downright  patriotism;  some  thought  it  was 
opposition  to  his  pastor.  No  matter.  There  it  was  ;  and 
the  great  newspapers  spoke  of  him  as  a  "  true  soggarth, 
who  was  upholding,  under  difficult  and  trying  circum- 
stances, the  noblest  traditions  of  the  Irish  Church." 
These  laudatory  lines  Father  Pat  had  cut  out,  and  pasted 
into  the  cover  of  the  Pars  Aestiva  of  his  breviary,  where 
they  formed  occasionally  the  subject  of  an  impromptu 
meditation.  And  as  these  three  excellent  men  were 
obliged  to  make  their  wills  in  conformity  with  the  stat- 
utes of  the  diocese,  it  was  understood  (though  this  of 
course  was  a  secret)  that  the  two  executors  of  him  who 
should  predecease  the  others  were  to  be  the  survivors. 
What  the  last  survivor  was  to  do  history  does  not  tell. 
And  yet,  with  all  the  unbroken  intimacy  extending 
over  many  years,  no  three  men  could  be  more  unlike  in 
character,  disposition,  and  education  than  the  "  Insepa- 
rables." Father  Pat  Casey  was  an  open-air  priest,  who 
lived  in  the  saddle,  and  was  the  familiar  and  intimate 
of  every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  the  parish.  We 
might  say,  indeed,  in  the  three  parishes ;  for  his  brother 


EN   ROUTE  81 

clerics  often  good-humouredly  complained  that  he  for- 
got the  rectification  of  the  frontiers,  and  poached  rather 
extensively  on  their  preserves.  He  had  a  genuine,  un- 
disguised horror  of  books.  His  modest  library  consisted 
of  St.  Liguori  in  two  volumes,  Perrone  in  four,  Alzog 
in  two,  and  Receveur  in  ten.  There  were,  also,  about 
fifty  volumes  of  the  Delphin  classics,  which  liad  come 
down  to  him  from  a  scholarly  uncle  ;  and  in  the  midst 
of  these  was  a  single  volume  of  De  Quincey,  with  an 
account,  amongst  other  essays,  of  the  last  days  of  Kant. 
This  volume  was  the  occasion  of  perpetual  inquiry  and 
interrogation. 

"Where  in  the  world  did  I  pick  it  up?  Who  the 
mischief  was  this  Kant  ?  W^hat  a  name  for  a  Christian! 
Martin,  I  am  sure  I  must  have  stolen  it  from  jou  in  a 
fit  of  abstraction." 

But  he  would  not  part  with  it  —  not  for  its  weight 
in  gold.  It  had  served  him  well  a  few  times.  It  was 
always  lying  on  the  parlour  table,  except  during  meals, 
Avhen  it  went  back  to  the  bookshelf  ;  and  once  a  high- 
born English  lady,  who  had  called  to  inquire  about  some 
poor  people  in  the  neig]d)ourhoo(l,  took  it  up,  and  said:  — 

"•  I'm  glad  to  see  you  interested  in  my  favourite  author, 
Father.'' 

And  once,  when  the  Bishop  paid  an  impromptu  visit, 
he  found  Father  Pat  deeply  immersed  in  abstruse 
studies. 

'••  Reading,  Father  Casey  ?  "  said  the  Bishop,  as  if  lie 
were  surprised. 

"  Yes.  my  Lord,"  said  Father  Pat,  demurely. 

The  liisliop  took  up  the  volume,  turned  over  the  leaves 
with  a  slight  uplifting  of  the  eyebrows,  looked  at  Father 
Pat  questioningly,  looked  at  the  book,  and  sighed. 

There  were  a  few  })rints  of  sacred  subjects  around  tlie 
walls,  one  or  two  engravings  signed  Kaut'niann,  which 
Father  Pat  was  told  were  of  priceless  value.  But  the 
masterpiece  was  over  the  mantel  ;  it  represented  three 
or  four  horses,  bay  and  black,  their  skins  shining  like 
mirrors.      One  was  hurt,  and  a  groom  was  chafing  the 

Q 


82  LUKE  DELMEGE 

fore  foot.  It  was  by  one  of  the  old  masters,  and  it  was 
called  "  Elliman's  Embrocation." 

"  Take  down  that  vulgar  thing,"  said  his  parish  priest, 
on  one  of  the  few  occasions  when  he  visited  his  curate. 
Father  Pat  obeyed,  but  put  it  back  again.  It  was  the 
source  of  innocent  and  ineffable  pleasure  to  him. 

Father  Pat  didn't  preach.  He  only  spoke  to  the 
people.  Hence,  after  thirty  years  of  zealous  ministra- 
tion, he  remained  a  curate  ;  and  there  seemed  no  like- 
lihood that  he  would  ever  be  asked,  in  his  own  words, 
"  to  change  his  condition." 

Father  Tim  Hurley  was  pastor  of  aneighbouring  parish 
—  a  one-horse  parish.  He  had  no  curate  —  a  fact  in 
which  he  took  great  pride  when  speaking  to  his  fellow- 
pastors,  but  which  he  deplored,  almost  witli  tears  in  his 
eyes,  when  in  the  company  of  curates.  Once,  in  his 
early  days,  he  liad  had  the  supreme  misfortune  of  mak- 
inof  an  excellent  hon  mot,  and  an  unwise  admirer  had 
called  him  "  Thou  son  of  Sirach."  From  that  day  for- 
ward he  assumed  the  aphoristic  mode  of  speaking  ;  and 
sometimes  it  was  a  torture  to  his  friends  to  see  him,  in 
much  agony,  labouring  to  twist  and  extort  from  his  inner 
consciousness  some  pithy  phrase  that  would  help  him 
to  conserve  or  extend  his  reputation.  Under  the  un- 
wise advice  of  his  friend  Father  Martin,  he  had  laid  in 
a  stock  oj  writers  who  had  been  remarkable  for  their 
wit  and  powers  of  repartee  ;  but  it  was  mighty  hard  to 
bring  around  Rochefoucauld  in  a  conversation  about  the 
diocese,  or  Epictetus  when  they  were  talking  about  the 
harvest.  And  so  Father  Tim  was  driven,  by  the  stress 
of  circumstances,  to  fall  back  upon  his  own  originality ; 
and  if,  sometimes,  he  failed,  he  found,  on  the  whole, 
that  in  his  flights  of  fancy  his  own  gray  feathers  were 
better  than  borrowed  plumage. 

Father  Martin,  again,  was  almost  a  direct  antithesis 
to  his  friends  ;  and  as  it  was  from  him  Luke's  future 
life  took  some  of  its  colour,  I  must  give  him  a  little 
more  space  just  here. 

Father  Martin  Hughes  was  not  originally  intended  for 


EN    ROUTE  83 

the  Church,  but  for  the  Bar.  For  this  purpose  he  had 
spent  two  years  in  Germany,  passing  from  university  to 
university,  lodging  in  humble  cottages  by  the  banks  of 
legendaij  rivers,  or  in  the  solitudes  of  black  mountain 
forests  ;  and  here  he  had  learned  to  prize  the  simple, 
cleanly  lives,  gray  and  drab  in  their  monotony,  but 
gilded  by  the  music  and  the  mystery  that  seems  to  hang 
like  a  golden  cloud  above  the  Fatherland.  In  after 
life  he  often  recurred,  with  all  the  gratefulness  of  mem- 
ory, to  the  kindliness  and  unaffected  politeness  of  these 
simple  peasants  and  wood-cutters  ;  and  the  little  marks 
of  sympathetic  friendship,  such  as  the  placing  of  a 
bunch  of  violets  with  silent  courtesy  on  his  dressing- 
table,  or  the  little  presents  on  his  birthday,  when  his 
portrait  was  decorated  by  some  Gretchen  or  Ottilie, 
were  graved  indelibly  on  a  memory  almost  too  retentive. 
Then  the  pathos  of  the  German  hymns,  sung  by  a  whole 
family  around  the  supper  table,  and  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  a  single  table-piano,  such  as  you  see  in  every 
German  household,  haunted  him  like  a  dream ;  and 
when,  by  degrees,  he  began  to  realize  that  this  country, 
which  but  a  few  years  back  had  been  cursed  by  a  foreign 
tongue,  had  now,  by  a  supreme  magnificent  effort,  cre- 
ated its  own  language,  and  a  literature  unsurpassed  for 
richness  and  sweetness,  he  saturated  himself  witli  the 
poetry  and  philosophy  of  the  country,  which  gave  a 
new  colour  and  embellishment  to  life.  Not  that  he 
troubled  himself  much  about  the  cloudy  metaphysics 
of  this  school  or  that,  or  the  line  liair-s[)littiiig  of  philo- 
so})liical  mountebanks  who  ridiculed  the  scholastics  lor 
logic-chopping,  yet  imitated  in  untruth  the  worst  fea- 
tures of  systems  they  condemned  ;  but  he  allowed  the 
fine  mists  and  mountain  dews  of  Schiller,  Richter,  and 
Novalis  to  wrap  him  round  and  saturate  his  spirit,  and 
thanked  God  that  He  had  given  poets  to  the  world. 
The  last  months  of  his  pilgrimage  he  had  spent  above 
the  Necker,  in  the  grand  old  town  of  Heidelberg,  and 
he  never  saw  it  after  l)ut  in  such  a  sunset  dream  of 
colouring,  and  such  an  overhanging  heaven  of  azure,  as 


84  LUKE  DELMEGE 

arches  the  golden  landscapes  on  the  canvases  of  Turner. 
But  it  was  there  and  in  the  lonely  recesses  of  the  Hartz 
mountains,  where  village  after  village  clustered  around 
the  church  spire  and  the  white  tombs  of  the  dead,  that 
the  gentle  afflatus  was  breathed  on  him  that  turned  his 
thoughts  from  the  forum  to  the  pulpit  and  from  the 
world  to  God.  But  he  never  abandoned  his  German 
studies  during  all  his  after  life.  He  had  conceived  the 
original  and  apparently  extravagant  idea  of  engrafting 
German  ideas,  German  habits  and  manners  on  the  peas- 
antry at  home,  and  he  had  written  one  thoughtful  article 
on  the  affinity  between  German  and  Irish  thought  and 
tradition.  He  thought  to  show  tliat  German  idealism 
and  Celtic  mysticism  were  the  same,  and  that  the  issue 
of  an  alliance  between  the  thoughts  and  sympathies  of 
these  nations  should  necessarily  be  a  healthy  one.  But 
he  was  hooted  from  the  literary  stage.  France,  and 
France  alone,  was  to  be  our  wet-nurse  and  duenna  — 
and  Father  Martin  went  back  to  his  books  and  his 
dreams.  He  was,  therefore,  a  cipher,  a  nonentity,  for 
a  silenced  voice  is  supposed  to  denote  and  symbolize 
emptiness  in  a  loud-tongued,  blatant  land.  Then, 
again,  his  accomplishments  and  learning  were  merged 
and  forgotten  in  the  fact  that  he  was  the  gentlest,  the 
most  imperturbable  of  men.  And  partly  by  native  dis- 
position, partly  by  habit  and  cultivation,  he  had  come 
to  that  pass  when  he  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to 
differ  with  any  one  about  anything.  He  answered, 
"  Quite  so  !  "  to  the  most  absurd  and  extravagant  state- 
ment. Hence,  after  conferences  and  such  like  he  was 
generally  reputed  dull,  because  he  did  not  choose  to  take 
part  in  discussions,  which  had  no  interest  for  him.  But 
there  was  a  tradition  amongst  the  "Inseparables"  that 
after  these  occasions  strange  sounds  of  laughter  used  to 
be  heard  from  the  recesses  of  his  library.  But  this  was 
a  mistake.  It  was  only  a  musical  box  that  used  to  play 
twelve  airs,  and  which  always  required  winding  on  these 
particular  occasions.  So  said  the  '•'■  Inseparables"  to  the 
gentiles ;    but  they  had  a  Freemason  secret  amongst 


EN   ROUTE  85 

themselves  that  Father  Martin  did  verily  and  indeed 
enjoy  a  joke.  And  in  one  of  the  secret  recesses  of  his 
library,  which  no  one  was  allowed  to  penetrate  but  the 
"  Inseparables,"  he  had  a  lar^e  ring  or  rosary  of  photo- 
graphic portraits  —  Kant,  Fichte,  Schelling,  Hegel, 
Goethe,  Wieland,  Richter,  Novalis,  and  Herder.  The 
centre  panel  was  for  a  long  time  vacant.  Then  one 
day  it  was  tilled  —  filled  with  a  cabinet  portrait  of  a 
man  who,  at  his  own  dinner  table,  used  to  say  by  ges- 
tures, if  not  articulately  to  his  worshippers  and  syco- 
phants :  "  Behold,  am  I  not  your  lord  and  master  ? " 
and  they  answered  him  and  said  :  "  Yea,  verily,  thou 
art  our  lord  and  king."  And  the  horrible  story  went 
abroad  that  Father  Martin,  the  demure  monk  and 
eremite,  used  to  sit  in  his  arm-chair  for  hours  together, 
contemplating  tliis  circle  of  genius  with  the  centre  of 
conceited  emptiness,  and  laugh  loud  and  long  at  the 
dismal  contrast. 

Luke  was  privileged  to  spend  his  last  three  days  in 
Ireland  in  the  company  of  these  kindly  men.  Why  he 
was  admitted  within  the  magic  circle  Avas  a  great  puzzle 
to  him,  tlie  only  answer  to  which  he  found  in  Jiis  })ro- 
spective  exile.  The  profit  he  derived  from  this  inter- 
course was  probably  not  an  appreciable  quantity  ;  but 
liis  nerves  got  smootlied  out  and  calmed.  It  is  true, 
indeed,  that  Father  Tim  gave  laboured  utterance  to  one 
or  two  of  his  oracular  sayings,  which,  not  being  quite 
consistent  in  tlicir  moral  bearing  with  what  Luke  had 
been  taught,  occasioned  him  not  a  little  anxiety  and 
scruple.  For  example,  Father  Tim  strongly  inculcated 
on  Luke  the  paramount  necessity  of  ''not  selling  himst'lf 
cheap." 

"  The  world  takes  you,  my  boy,  at  your  own  valua- 
tion. Hold  your  head  high,  and  put  a  big  price  on 
yourself." 

"But  surely.  Father,"  remonstrated  Luke,  "that 
would  be  quite  inconsistent  with  Christian  Immility." 

"Humility?  (tod  bless  me,  my  boy,  you'll  be  ])ulU'd 
and  draeffjed  throu'di  the  mud  :   you'll  be  tiainiiltMl  into 


86  LUKE  DELMEGE 

compost  by  the  hoofs  of  men  if  you  attempt  to  make 
little  of  yourself." 

Luke  was  silent. 

"  An  eel  has  a  better  chance  than  a  salmon,"  said 
Father  Tim,  on  another  occasion,  "  of  making  his  way 
in  the  narrow  and  twisted  and  shallow  channels  of  Irish 
life."  After  a  long  pause  of  pleasure,  he  added  :  "  But 
an  eel  is  not  a  salmon  for  all  that." 

The  brethren  nodded  assent. 

"  You  have  a  good  name  to  go  to  England  with,  my 
boy,"  he  said,  at  his  own  dinner-table  on  Monday  even- 
ing. "  Who  was  the  fool  that  said  :  '  What's  in  a 
name  ?  A  rose  by  any  other  name  would  smell  as 
sweet.' " 

"A  great  fellow  called  Will  Shakspere,"  said  Father 
Martin. 

"  1  thought  so.  One  of  those  birds  who  hatch  the 
eggs  of  others.  Now,  will  any  one  tell  me  that  Del- 
mege  —  and  if  you  can  pronounce  it  in  the  French 
fashion  so  much  the  better  —  is  not  a  wholesomer  name 
for  an  exile  than  O'Shaughnessy  or  O'Deluchery  ? 
You'll  find  that  this  fellow  will  come  back  to  us  with 
an  accent  like  a  duchess,  and  that  he'll  find  out  that  his 
ancestors  fought  at  Poictiers,  and  that  he  is  a  first 
cousin,  in  the  collateral  line,  to  Joan  of  Arc." 

"  It  is  a  curious  form  of  insanity,"  said  Father  Mar- 
tin, ''and  every  one  is  more  or  less  affected." 

"  Except  myself  and  Father  Pat.  I  could  never  trace 
the  Hurleys  or  the  Caseys  be3'ond  the  three-years-old 
and  four-years-old  factions.  But  I  believe  they  were 
very  conspicuous  in  these  crusades."  He  added,  in  his 
tone  of  quiet  sarcasm  :  "  When  I  get  a  little  money 
together,  which  is  a  rather  problematical  issue  at  pres- 
ent, I'm  going  to  get  my  notepaper  crested,  like  the 
Canon  —  two  shillelaghs  rampant  —  very  rampant  —  on 
a  background  of  red  —  very  red,  with  the  motto,  Nemo 
me.  impune  lacessit,  or  its  Irish  translation,  Don't  tread  on 
the  tail  of  my  coat ;  and  I'll  also  pay  for  Father  Pat's, 
for  he'll  never  have  a  penny  to  bless  himself  with." 


EN   ROUTE  87 

"  And  wouldn't  you  kindly  suggest  an  heraldic  crest 
and  motto  for  Father  Pat?"  said  Father  Martin. 

"  Certainly.  A  death's-head  and  crossbones  couch- 
ant,  on  a  black  ground,  with  the  motto  of  Napoleon  : 
Frappez-vite  — frappez-fort,  or  in  the  vernacular  :  Wher- 
ever you  see  a  head^  hit  it!  " 

"  No  !  no  !  "  said  Father  Martin  ;  "  that  would  not 
be  appropriate.  Give  him  the  surgeon's  knife  and  the 
motto,  Mescissa  vegetius  resurget."" 

To  explain  which  parable  we  should  add  here  that 
Father  Pat  was  an  amateur  surgeon,  principally  in  the 
veterinary  department.  He  had  a  little  surgery,  a  room 
about  eight  feet  square,  off  the  hall  ;  and  here  he  per- 
formed operations  on  animals  that  would  have  made 
Lister  die  of  envy.  Here  he  had  put  into  splints  the 
broken  leg  of  a  blackbird,  who,  in  exchange  for  the 
gratuitous  service,  then  and  there  abdicated  his  free- 
dom, and  became  the  melodious  companion  of  the  priest. 
Here,  too,  dogs  of  all  shapes  and  breeds  were  brought 
to  him,  and  whilst  he  treated  them  with  infinite  gentle- 
ness, and  they  licked  his  hand  in  gratitude,  and  the 
wistful,  swimming  look  gathered  into  their  eyes,  as 
indeed  into  all  eyes,  human  and  other,  in  crises  of  their 
lives,  some  thought  that  he  dropped  a  tear  into  the  em- 
brocation, and  moistened  the  ointment  in  this  old  human 
wa3^  In  spiritual  matters,  too,  he  was  an  able  and 
tender  physician.  I  am  not  sure  that  he  was  a  distin- 
guished theologian,  or  that  he  could  weigh  opinions  in 
the  balance,  like  that  sensitive  plate  in  the  Bank  of 
England,  that  flings  good  coins  to  the  right,  and  light, 
spurious  ones  to  the  left,  and  quivers,  as  if  in  doubt, 
when  a  dubious  coin  is  submitted,  and  reasons  in  its 
own  mechanical  way,  and  finall}'  drops  it.  Hut  Father 
Pat  had  a  sovereign  remedy,  a  pure  ana'sthetic,  an  anti- 
septic salve  for  all  the  wounds  of  hunianit}',  and  that 
was  Epikeia.  It  was  never  known  to  fail  him,  and  the 
consequence  was  that  patients  flocked  to  him  from  town 
and  country  and  went  away  rejoicing. 

"  I  can't  make  it  out,"  he  said.      "•  Fm  not  much  of  a 


88  LUKE  DELMEGE 

theologian,  and  the  Lord  knows  I'm  not  a  saint.  I 
suppose  'tis  the  grace  of  God  and  an  honest  face." 

"  No  matter,"  said  Father  Tim,  in  reply ;  "  he'll  never 
come  to  decent  notepaper.  Ah,  me  !  if  Pat  had  only 
held  his  head  high,  how  different  he  would  be  to-day  ! 
Luke,  my  boy,  hold  your  head  high,  and  let  every  year 
increase  your  valuation." 

"  Tell  him  about  Tracey,"  said  Father  Fat;  "it  might 
frighten  him." 

"About  Tracey,  that  poor  angashore  in  the  city? 
Well,  he's  an  awful  example.  He  had  a  good  parish  — 
as  good  a  parish  as  there  is  in  the  diocese.  It  is  my 
own  native  parish  —  " 

"  It  is  the  Siberia  of  the  diocese,"  hinted  Father  Martin. 

"  It's  my  own  native  parish,"  said  Father  Tim,  "  and 
though  I  shouldn't  say  it,  there's  as  good  a  living  there 
—  well,  no  matter.  What  did  our  friend  Tracey  do? 
Instead  of  thanking  God  and  his  Bishop,  he  flew  into 
the  face  of  God,  he  insulted  the  Bishop,  he  insulted  the 
people,  and  he  insulted  me."  The  memory  of  the  in- 
sult was  so  vivid  and  painful  that  Father  Tim  could 
not  speak  for  several  seconds. 

"  He  began  to  make  meditations,  if  you  please,  with 
the  result,  of  course,  that  he  Avent  clean  off  his  head. 
His  delusion  was  that  he  was  too  elevated  as  a  parish 
priest,  God  bless  the  mark !  and  that  his  salvation 
would  be  more  secure  on  a  lower  runof  of  the  ladder. 
He  resigned  his  parish  and  became  chaplain  to  a  city 
hospital.  He  is  low  enough  now.  He  may  be  seen 
wandering  around  the  streets  of  the  city  with  a  coat  on 
him  as  green  as  a  leek,  and  he  looks  like  an  anatomy. 
Of  course  he  is  off  his  head  ;  and  the  fun  is,  he  likes 
to  be  told  it.  And  if  you'd  politely  liint  that  he  has 
been,  and  must  have  been,  suspended  for  an  occult 
crime,  he'd  shake  your  hand  like  a  hungry  friend  whom 
you  had  unexpectedly  asked  to  dinner." 

"  By  Jove  !  "  said  Luke,  forgetting  himself,  and  strik- 
ing the  table,  "the  first  vacation  I  get,  FU  make  a  pil- 
grimage to  the  city  and  kiss  that  man's  feet." 


EN   ROUTE  89 

"That's  easy  enough,"  said  Father  Tim,  "because 
his  shoes  are  usually  well  ventilated,  and  he's  not  shy 
about  showing  his  toes.  Meanwhile,  Luke,  spare  these 
few  glasses  of  mine.  They  are  all  I  have,  and  this  is 
a  hungry  parish." 

"  Tell  me,  Father  Martin,"  said  Luke,  as  the  two 
went  home  together,  "is  that  true  what  Father  Tim 
told  about  that  priest  in  Limerick?  Because  one  never 
knows  when  he  is  serious  and  when  jesting." 

"  Literally  true,"  said  Father  ]\Lartin,  with  that  tone 
of  seriousness  which  was  natural  to  him,  and  which  he 
only  suppressed  in  moments  of  relaxation. 

"And'are  cases  like  this  very  rare?"  asked  Luke. 

"Not  so  rare  as  you  may  imagine,"  replied  Father 
Martin,  "  but  not  so  remarkable." 

"  I  suppose  the  man  is  worshipped,"  said  Luke,  gaug- 
ing the  popular  estimate  by  his  own. 

"Quite  the  contrary.  He  is  regarded  by  all  as  an 
imbecile.  The  people  only  think  of  him  as  one  'tetched 
in  his  mind.'  " 

"But  the  brethren — his  own  —  who  understand  his 
heroism?" 

"Oh!"  said  Father  Martin,  with  a  long  breath. 
"  Well,"  he  said  deliberately,  "  here,  too,  there  is  com- 
passion, but  no  great  admiration.  He  is  not  called  a 
fool,  but  he  is  treated  as  such.  I  remember  a  few 
months  ago  a  magnilieent  sermon,  preached  by  a  great 
pulpit  orator,  on  "Humility.'  It  was  really  beautiful, 
and  the  picture  he  drew  of  St.  Francis,  hooted  by  the 
people  of  his  native  town,  and  called  'a  fool,'  was  pho- 
togra[)hic  in  its  perfect  details.  But  when  he  met 
Father  Tracey,  with  his  old  green  coat  at  the  dinner 
table  afterwards,  it  was  deliglitful  to  see  his  condescen- 
sion. He  shook  hands  with  him,  apparently  with  some 
reluctance,  but  said  immediately  after  to  one  of  a  group 
of  his  admirers  :  '  Poor  fellow  !  poor  fellow  !  '  lint  the 
cream  of  the  joke  was  that  an  excellent  man,  immedi- 
ately after,  spoke  of   the  distinguished    orator   as  the 


90  LUKE  DELMEGE 

exact  and  happy  antithesis  of  wretched  failures  like 
Father  Tracey." 

"  It's  a  dreadful  enigma,"  said  Luke,  wearily  mop- 
ping his  forehead.      "I  don't  know  where  I  am." 

"  You  see  Father  Tim's  advice  was  not  so  far  absurd 
as  you  seem  to  think.  We  are  all  like  frogs  in  a  swamp, 
each  trying  to  croak  louder  than  his  fellows,  and  to  lift 
his  stupid  head  somewhat  above  them  out  of  this  dreary 
Slough  of  Despond.  And  for  what,  think  you  ?  That 
he  might  have  a  better  opportunity  than  his  fellows  to 
see  the  fens  and  quagmires  of  this  dreary  existence, 
and  inhale  the  more  deeply  the  marsh-miasms  of  this 
fever-stricken  and  pestilential  planet." 

"  But,  surely,  you  do  not  agree  with  what  Father 
Tim  said  ?  "  said  Luke,  in  an  accent  of  despair. 

"■  I  fully  agree  with  his  conclusion  that,  if  you  are 
humble  and  lowly  and  self-effaced,  3'ou  will  certainly 
hd  crushed  into  compost  under  the  hoofs  of  wild  asses. 
But  —  "     He  stopped,  and  Luke  watched  him. 

"  I  believe,  also,  that  the  highest  Christian  teaching 
is  true  ;  and  that  no  real  work  is  done  in  the  world 
except  by  humble  and  lowly  men.  Did  you  notice  the 
two  photos  on  my  mantelpiece  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  your  idols  ?  " 

"According  to  mood.  When  I  am  disposed  to  be 
contemptuous  or  scornful  or  too  zealous,  I  turn  to  Sa- 
vonarola ;  he  was  my  deity  for  half  my  life.  When  I 
am  in  a  gentle  and  charitable  mood,  I  light  a  taper 
before  the  Cure  of  Ars." 

"'Tis  all  a  mighty  puzzle,"  said  Luke. 

"  Ay,  'tis  a  mad  world,  my  merry  masters,"  answered 
the  priest.      Then,  after  a  long  pause,  he  said  :  — 

"I  dare  say  you're  pretty  tired  of  the  advice  and 
wisdom  of  your  seniors.  But  you  have  had  a  great 
misfortune.  You  have  come  into  the  world  worse 
equipped  than  if  you  had  been  born  blind  or  lame. 
You  have  a  hundred  naked,  quivering  nerves,  wide 
open  on  every  square  inch  of  your  body.  Happy  you 
if  you  had  been  born  with  the  hide  of   a  rhinoceros. 


EN    ROUTE  91 

As  this  is  not  so,  I  say  to  you,  first,  with  the  Grecian 
philosopher  — 

"  Hahita  tecum.  Dwell  as  much  as  you  can  with 
your  own  thoughts.     Secondly,  — 

"Make  God  your  companion,  not  men.     Thirdly, — 

"  Feed  not  on  ephemeral  literature,  but  on  the  mar- 
row of  giants.     Good-bye  !  till  to-morrow." 

On  Friday  afternoon,  Luke  was  launclied  on  the 
high  seas  in  the  London  steamer,  and  into  the  mighty 
world  at  the  same  time.  The  enigma  of  life  was  going 
to  be  shown  him  for  solution  on  larger  canvas  and  in 
deeper  colours  in  the  strange  and  unfamiliar  environ- 
ments of  English  life. 


BOOK    II 


CHAPTER   VIII 
ALBION 

Not  tlie  white  cliffs  of  Dover,  ])ut  the  red  loam  of 
Devonshire  downs,  where  the  sandstone  was  capped  by 
the  rich  teeming  soil,  saluted  our  young  exile  the  fol- 
lowing morning.  He  had  risen  early  ,  and,  shaking  off 
the  mephitis  of  a  stuffy  cabin,  had  rushed  above,  just  as 
the  sailors  were  swabbing  the  decks.  Here  he  drew  in 
long,  deep  breaths  of  the  crisp,  cool  sea  air,  as  he  watched 
the  furrows  cut  by  the  coulter  of  the  sea-plough,  or 
studied  the  white  towns  that  lay  so  picturesquely 
under  the  ruddy  cliffs.  "•  And  this  is  England,"  Luke 
thought.  "England,  the  far-reaching,  the  imperial, 
whose  power  is  reverenced  by  white,  and  black,  and 
bronzed  races ;  and  whose  sovereignty  stretches  from 
the  peaks  of  the  Himalayas  to  the  Alps  of  the  southern 
Archipelagoes."  Luke  couldn't  understand  it.  She 
lay  so  quiet  there  in  the  morning  sun,  her  landscapes 
stretched  so  peaceful  and  calm,  that  symbol  of  power, 
or  of  might  far-reaching,  there  was  none. 

''  I  tliought,"  said  Luke,  aloud,  "  that  ever}'  notch  in 
her  cliffs  was  an  embrasure,  and  that  the  mouths  of  her 
cannon  were  like  nests  in  her  rocks." 

"  "Lis  the  lion  coucluint  et  dormant,''''  said  a  voice. 

Luke  turned  and  saw  standing  close  by  an  officer  of 
the  ship,  a  clean-cut,  trim,  well-defined  figure,  clad  in 
the  blue  cloth  and  gold  lace  of  the  service.  His  face, 
instead  of  the  red  and  bronze  of  the  sailor,  had  an  olive 
tinge,  through  which  ])urncd  two  glowing,  gleaming 
brown  eyes,  whiili  just  then  were  sweeping  the  coast,  as 
if  in  search  of  a  signal. 

95 


96  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  I  have  often  had  the  same  thoughts  as  you,  sir,"  he 
said,  as  if  anxious  to  continue  the  conversation,  "  as  we 
swept  along  here  under  more  troublous  skies  and  over 
more  turbulent  seas  than  now.  It  is  the  silent  and 
sheathed  strength  of  England  that  is  terrible.  I  have 
seen  other  powers  put  forth  all  their  might  by  land  and 
sea  :  I  have  not  been  moved.  But  I  never  approach 
the  English  coast  without  a  feeling  of  awe." 

"  I  dare  say  it  is  something  to  be  proud  of,"  said 
Luke,  who  was  appreciative  of  this  enthusiasm,  but  did 
not  share  it. 

"Perhaps  not,"  the  officer  replied  ;   "it  is  destiny." 

"You  see  the  Cornish  coast,"  he  continued,  pointing 
to  a  dim  haze  far  behind  them,  in  which  the  outlines  of 
the  land  were  faintly  pencilled.  "  Would  you  believe 
that  up  to  the  dawn  of  our  century,  fifty  years  ago,  that 
entire  peninsula  was  Catholic  ?  They  had  retained  the 
Catholic  faith  from  the  times  of  the  Reformation.  Then 
there  were  no  priests  to  be  had  ;  Wesley  went  down, 
and  to-day  they  are  the  most  bigoted  Dissenters  in  Eng- 
land ;  and  Cornwall  will  be  the  last  county  that  will 
come  back  to  the  Church." 

"  Horrible  !  "  said  Luke,  sadly. 

"  And  yet  so  thin  is  the  veneering  of  Protestantism 
that  their  children  are  still  called  by  the  names  of  Cath- 
olic saints,  Angela,  and  Ursula,  and  Teresa  ;  and  they 
have  as  many  holy  wells  as  you  have  in  Ireland." 

"  It  must  be  a  heart-break  to  the  priests,"  said  Luke, 
"who  have  to  minister  amid  such  surroundings." 

"I  only  speak  of  it  as  a  matter  of  Fate,"  said  the  of- 
ficer, dreamily.  "  It  is  the  terrific  power  of  assimila- 
tion which  Protestant  England  possesses." 

"  You  must  be  proud  of  ybur  great  country,"  said 
Luke. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  officer,  "  I  am  not." 

Luke  looked  at  him  with  surprise. 

"  Ireland  is  my  country,"  the  officer  said  in  reply, 
"  and  these  are  our  countrymen."  He  pointed  down 
into  the  lower  deck,  where,  lying  prostrate  in  various 


ALBION  97 

degrees  of  intoxication,  were  four  or  five  cattle-dealers. 
They  had  sought  out  the  warmth  of  the  boiler  during 
the  night  ;  and  there  they  lay,  unwashed  and  unkempt, 
in  rather  uninviting  conditions.  Their  magnificent 
cattle,  fed  on  Irish  pastures,  were  going  to  feed  the 
mouths  of  Ireland's  masters,  and  tramped  and  lowed 
and  moaned  in  hideous  discord  for  food,  and  clashed 
their  horns  together  as  the  vessel  rolled  on  the  waves. 
It  was  altogether  an  unpleasant  exhibition,  and  Luke 
turned  away  with  a  sigh. 

In  the  early  afternoon,  the  boat,  after  sheering  close 
under  the  Eddystone  lighthouse,  swept  around  the  beau- 
tiful woodlands  and  shrublands  of  Mount  Edgcumbe, 
and  the  splendid  panorama  of  Plymouth  harbour  burst 
on  the  view.  Here  again  Luke  was  disappointed.  Ev- 
erything looked  so  calm,  and  peaceful,  ;tnd  prosperous, 
that  he  found  it  difficult  to  understand  that  there  to 
the  left  was  one  of  the  greatest  dockyards  and  marine 
emporiums  and  store-houses  in  the  world  ;  and  his  eye 
ranched  aloncf  until,  liidden  under  the  bosky  covers  and 
the  abundant  foliage  of  Mount  Edgcumbe,  he  saw  a 
long,  low  wall  of  concrete,  and  there  were  the  bulldog 
mouths  of  England's  cannon. 

"  Going  ashore,  sir  ?  "  said  the  chief  mate,  the  officer 
who  had  previously  accosted  him. 

"  No,"  said  Luke,  dubiously. 

"  Let  me  introduce  my  wife  and  little  girl,  sir,"  he 
said  politely.  "  We  are  running  in,  as  I  am  leaving 
iNLarguerite  with  the  Notre  Danic  nuns  here." 

"  You  are  going  further.  Father  ?  "  said  the  lady,  with 
frankly  })olite  Lisli  manner. 

"Yes,"  said  Luke,  ''  I'm  going  to  London.  I  have  a 
sister  Margaret  also,"  lie  said,  tenderly  watching  the 
child's  eyes,  ''  but  we  call  lier  Margei-y." 

"  We  shall  be  lonely  after  our  little  woman,"  said  the 
officer;   "  but  she  will  l)e  in  safe  hands." 

"  Do  you  know  what  Marguerite  means,  little  one  ?  " 
said  Luke. 

"No,  Father,"  said  the  child. 

H 


98  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  It  means  a  pearl.     Be  tlion,"  he  said,  assuming  a 
tone  of  unwonted  solemnity,  "a  pearl  of  great  price." 
'■'  Bless  her,  Father,"  said  the  Catholic  mother. 
And  Luke  blessed  the  child. 

All  that  day,  whenever  he  had  a  spare  moment  from 
his  Office  and  a  few  necessary  studies,  he  was  absorbed 
in  two  reflections.  The  awful  spectacle  of  those  drunken 
men  in  the  morning  haunted  him  like  a  nightmare. 
They  had  risen  half  drunk  from  their  hot,  hard  bed, 
and  stupidly  had  passed  him  near  the  gangway  with  a 
maudlin  :  "  Fi'  morn'n,  Fazzer  !  "  And  he  was  study- 
ing all  day  the  mighty  problem,  that  has  occupied  more 
attention  than  half  the  more  serious  problems  of  the 
world.  What  is  it  ?  What  is  it  ?  —  the  fatal  bias 
towards  intoxication  that  seems  to  distinguish  the  race  ? 
Indolence,  vacuity  of  thought,  the  fatal  altruism  of  the 
race  ?     What  is  it  ?     Or  is  it  only  a  political  calumny  ? 

And  side  by  side,  alternating  rapidly  with  the  bitter 
reflection,  came  the  question  :  Why  will  not  Irish 
mothers  educate  their  children  at  home?  Have  we  not 
convents,  etc.  ?  Why,  it  is  Irish  nuns  who  are  teach- 
ing here  in  Plymouth  and  throughout  England.  What 
is  in  the  English  air  that  the  same  teachers  can  teach 
better  here  than  at  home?  Or  is  it  the  everlasting 
serfdom  of  the  race,  always  crouching  at  the  feet  of  the 
conqueror,  always  lessening  and  depreciating  its  own 
large  possibilities  ?  Let  it  alone,  Luke,  let  it  alone  ! 
Except,  indeed,  as  an  exercise,  to  while  away  a  long 
afternoon  under  sleepy  awnings,  and  to  soothe  your 
nerves  with  the  dull  mechanic  interplay  of  questions 
that  are  forever  seeking  and  never  finding  an  answer, 
let  it  alone,  let  it  alone  I  But  Luke  was  not  made 
thus.     He  had  a  great  taste  for  the  insoluble. 

Late  in  the  evening  he  heard  the  same  officer  chatting 
freely  in  French,  and  with  the  absolute  ease  of  a  native, 
with  a  young  governess  who  was  returning  to  her  home 
from  Ireland.  He  listened,  not  with  curiosity,  but  just 
to  see  if  he  could  distinguish  one  word.     Not  a  word  ! 


ALBION  99 

And  he  had  got  a  prize  in  Frencli  in  his  logic  year. 
"  Hang  Wegscheider  and  the  Monophysites,"  thought 
Luke. 

Now,  I  shoukl  like  to  know  where  is  the  connection 
between  Wegscheider,  a  fairly  modern  German,  and 
people  that  lived  fifteen  centuries  ago?  But  that  is  the 
way  the  lobes  of  the  brain  work  and  interchange  ideas, 
not  always  sympathetic,  or  even  relevant,  especially 
when  the  schoolmaster  is  in  a  passion,  and  demands  too 
much  work  at  once  from  his  willing  pupils. 

Next  day  the  vessel  had  swung  into  the  gangway  of 
the  world  —  that  mighty  sea-avenue  that  stretches  from 
the  Downs  and  the  Forelands  right  up  to  London 
Bridfje.  The  vessel's  engines  were  slowed  down,  for 
this  was  a  pathway  where  the  passengers  had  to  pick 
their  steps  ;  for  all  along  the  banks  at  intervals,  where 
the  plastic  hand  of  man  had  built  wharves  and  (^uaj's, 
there  was  a  plantation  of  bare  masts  and  yards  that  cut 
the  sk}'  ;  and  now  and  again  a  stately  steamer  loomed 
up  out  of  the  eternal  haze,  and  grew  and  swelled  into 
colossal  blackness  ;  then  passed  and  subsided  into  the 
dimensions  of  a  waterfowl  that  troubles  the  tranquil 
waters  with  swift  alarm.  Bound  for  the  Orient,  and 
laden  witli  freights  of  merchandise  —  from  the  mecha- 
nism of  a  locomotive  to  the  Brummagem-made  idol  for 
far  Cathay;  bound  for  the  Occident,  and  laden  to  the 
water's  edge,  and  stuffed  chock-full  with  rolls  and  bales 
from  the  looms  of  Manchester  ;  bound  for  the  roaring 
Cape  and  the  sleepy  isles  of  the  Pacific  ;  bound  for  the 
West  Lidies  and  the  Bermudas,  whence  Nature  lias 
tried  in  vain  to  frighten  them  with  her  explosive  earth- 
quakes or  the  dread  artillery  of  her  typhoons  ;  or 
homeward  from  far  climates,  and  with  the  rusty  marks 
of  the  storm  on  their  hulls,  and  their  sailors  staring  at 
the  old  familiar  sights  on  land  and  water  —  like  fairy 
shuttles,  moving  to  and  fro  across  the  woof  of  many 
waters,  —  the  fleets  of  the  empire  came  and  went,  and 
Luke  fancied  he  saw  the  far  round  world  as  in  a  magic 
mirror,  and  that  he  smelt  the  spices  of  Sultans  and  the 


100  LUKE  DELMEGE 

musk  of  the  gardens  of  Persia,  as  the  stately  argosies 
swept  by.  It  was  a  magnificent  panorama,  and  recalled 
the  times  when  the  Mtwe  Magnum  was  swept  by  the 
oars  of  the  Roman  triremes,  and  dusky  Ethiopians 
sweated  at  the  galleys  of  their  Roman  masters.  Then 
the  vision  faded,  and  in  the  raw  cold  of  an  exception- 
ally sharp  morning,  Luke  stepped  across  the  gangway 
and  looked  down  at  the  mighty  sewer  of  a  river,  and 
came  face  to  face  with  all  the  squalor  and  fsetor  of  Lon- 
don life. 

He  was  calmly  but  courteously  received  at  the  pres- 
bytery attached  to  the  cathedral  ;  and  it  surprised  him 
not  a  little  to  perceive  that  his  arrival  was  regarded  as 
an  event  of  as  ordinary  importance  as  the  closing  of  a 
door  or  the  ticking  of  a  clock.  He  took  his  seat  at  the 
dinner-table  ;  and  he  might  have  been  dining  there  for 
the  last  twenty  years,  so  little  notice  was  taken  of  him. 

He  was  a  little  surprised  when  he  was  told :  — 

"  Delmege,  if  you  want  bread,  you  can  get  it  at  the 
side-board ;  but  cut  the  loaf  even,  please." 

He  was  a  little  amused  when  some  one  asked  :  — 

"  I  say,  Delmege,  is  it  a  fact  that  the  curates  in  Ire- 
land give  dinners  at  a  guinea  a  head  ?  " 

He  replied  :  "  I  have  dined  with  curates,  and  even 
with  parish  priests  lately,  and  the  dinner  did  not  cost  a 
cent  per  head." 

"  Tell  that  to  the  marines,"  was  the  reply. 

And  he  was  almost  edified,  yet  partly  nonplussed, 
when  his  former  interrogator  took  him  out  promptly 
after  dinner  to  show  him  the  slums,  and  coolly  told  him 
on  returning  that  he  was  to  preach  to  a  confraternity 
that  evening. 

But  what  struck  him  most  forcibly  was,  the  calm  in- 
dependence with  which  each  individual  expressed  his 
opinion,  and  the  easy  toleration  with  which  they  dif- 
fered from  each  other,  and  even  contradicted,  without 
the  slightest  shade  of  asperity  or  resentment.  This 
was  a  perpetual  wonder  to  Luke  during  his  whole 
career  in  England. 


ALBION  101 

The  following  Friday  he  was  submitted  to  a  brief 
examination  for  faculties.  His  examiners  were  the 
Vicar-General  and  the  Diocesan  Inspector,  a  convert 
from  Anolicanism. 

"  In  the  case  of  a  convert,"  said  the  Vicar,  without 
Dreliminaries,  "whom  you  ascertained  to  have  never 
been  baptized,  but  who  was  married,  and  had  a  grown- 
up family,  what  would  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  should  proceed  with  great  caution,"  said  Luke,  to 
whom  the  question  seemed  rather  impertinent  and  far- 
fetched. He  had  been  expecting  to  be  asked  how  many 
grave  professors  were  on  this  side,  and  how  many  excel- 
lent writers  were  on  that  side,  of  some  abstruse  theo- 
logical problem. 

"  Very  good,"  said  the  Vicar,  "and  then?  " 

"  I  think  I  should  let  it  alone,"  said  Luke. 

"  Very  good.  But  these  good  people  are  not  mar- 
ried.     Could  you  allow  them  to  remain  so  ?  " 

"  It  depends  on  whether  they  are  bona  fide,  or  mala 
fide,''''  said  Luke,  reddening. 

"  Of  course  they  are  bona  fide,""  said  the  Vicar.  "Look 
it  up,  Delmege,  at  your  convenience." 

"  How  would  you  refute  the  arguments  for  continuity 
amongst  the  Anglican  divines  ?  "  said  the  Inspector. 

•"  How  would  you  prove  to  a  lunatic  that  black  is  jiot 
white,  and  that  yesterday  is  not  to-day?"  said  Luke. 
All,  Luke  !  Luke  !  where  are  all  your  resolutions  about 
interior  recollection  and  self-restraint  ?  You  are  far 
from  the  illuininaiive  state,  as  yet ! 

"That  will  hardly  do,"  said  the  Inspector,  smiling 
courteously  ;  "  remember  you  have  to  face  Laud  and 
the  Elizabethans,  and  Pusey  and  the  host  of  Victorian 
divines,  now." 

"  We  never  thought  of  such  things,"  said  Luke  ; 
"\ve  thought  that  the  old  doctrines  of  Transubstanti- 
ation.  Purgatory,  Confession,  etc.,  were  the  subjects  of 
controversy  to-day.  No  one  in  L-eland  even  dreams  of 
denying  that  the  Reformation  was  a  distinct  secession." 

"  Very  good,  very  good,"  said  the  Inspector.     "  One 


102  LUKE  DELMEGE 

word  more.  In  case  you  had  a  sick-call  to  St.  Thomas's 
Hospital  here  ;  and  when  you  arrived,  you  found  the 
surgeons  engaged  in  an  operation  on  a  Catholic  patient, 
which  operation  would  probably  prove  fatal,  what  would 
you  do  ?  " 

"  I  would  politely  ask  them  to  suspend  the  operation 
for  a  few  minutes  —  " 

"  And  do  you  think  they  would  remove  the  knives  at 
your  request,  and  probably  let  the  patient  collapse  ?  " 

"  I'd  give  the  patient  conditional  absolution,"  said 
Luke,  faintly. 

"  Ver}^  good.  You  wouldn't  —  a  —  knock  down  two 
or  three  of  the  surgeons  and  clear  the  room  ?  "  said  the 
Vicar,  with  a  smile. 

"  N-no,"  said  Luke.  He  was  very  angry.  Dear 
me  !  no  one  appears  to  have  heard  of  Wegscheider  at 
all. 

"  That's  all  right,"  said  the  examiners.  "  You'll  get 
the  printed  form  of  faculties  this  afternoon.  Confes- 
sions to-morrow  from  two  to  six,  and  from  seven  to  ten. 
Good-day." 

Luke  went  to  his  room.  He  was  never  so  angr}^  in 
his  life  before.  He  expected  a  lengthened  ordeal,  in 
which  deep  and  recondite  questions  would  be  intro- 
duced, and  in  which  he  would  have  some  chance  at  last 
of  showins^  what  he  had  learned  in  the  famous  halls  of 
his  college.  And  lo  1  not  a  particle  of  dust  was  touched 
or  flicked  away  from  dusty,  dead  folios  ;  but  here,  spick 
and  span,  were  trotted  out  airy  nothings  about  ephem- 
eral and  transient  everyday  existences ;  and  he  had 
not  got  one  chance  of  saying — " /S'l'c  argumentaris 
Dominer^  Evidently,  these  men  had  never  heard  of  a 
syllogism  in  their  lives.  And  then,  everything  was  so 
curt  and  short  as  to  be  almost  contemptuous.  Clearly, 
these  men  had  something  to  do  in  the  workaday  world 
besides  splitting  hairs  with  a  young  Hibernian.  Luke 
was  angry  with  himself,  with  his  college,  with  that 
smiling  ex-parson,  who  had  probably  read  about  two 
years'  philosophy  and  theology  before  his  ordination  ; 


ALBION  103 

and  with  that  grim,  sardonic  old  Vicar,  who  had  never 
opened  a  treatise  since  he  graduated  at  Douai  or  Rheims. 
Hence  it  happened  that  at  dinner,  when  a  strange 
priest  asked  simply  what  percentage  of  illiterates  were 
in  the  diocese,  and  the  old  Vicar  grimly  answered : — 

"  About  fifty  per  cent.  —  mostly  Irish  and  Italian  " 
—  Luke  flared  up  and  said  :  — 

"  We  weren't  illiterate  when  we  brought  the  Faith 
of  old  to  your  ancestors,  who  were  eating  acorns  with 
the  boars  in  your  forests,  and  painting  their  dirty  bodies 
with  woad  ;  and  when  your  kings  were  glad  to  fly  to 
our  monasteries  for  an  education,  nowhere  else  obtain- 
able on  this  planet." 

The  stranger  patted  Luke  on  the  back,  and  said 
"  Bravo  ! "  The  Vicar  pushed  over  the  jug  of  beer. 
But  they  were  friends  from  that  moment.  A  gnarled, 
knotty,  not  in  any  sense  of  the  word  euphonious  old 
Beresark  was  this  same  old  Vicar — his  steel-blue  eyes 
staring  ever  steadily  and  with  anxious  inquiry  in  them 
from  the  jagged  penthouse  of  gray  eyebrows  ;  and  his 
clear,  metallic  voice,  never  toned  down  to  politeness 
and  amenity,  but  dashed  in  a  spray  of  sarcasm  on  bishop, 
and  canon,  and  curate  indiscriminately.  He  would 
blow  you  sky  high  at  a  moment's  notice ;  the  next 
minute  he  would  kneel  down  and  tie  the  latchets  of 
your  shoes.  A  wonderful  taste  and  talent,  too,  he  had 
for  economics ;  not  ungenerous  by  any  means,  or  parsi- 
monious ;  but  he  objected  very  strongly  to  any  abstrac- 
tion of  jam  on  tlie  sleeve  of  your  soutane,  or  any  too 
generous  disti'ibution  of  brown  gravy  on  the  thirsty 
tablecloth. 

Saturday  came,  and  Luke  braced  liimself  for  the 
second  great  act  of  his  ministry  —  his  first  confession. 
He  had  scampered  over  the  treatise  on  Penance  the 
niglit  before  ;  and  just  at  two  o'clock  he  {)assed,  witli 
fear  and  trembling,  to  his  confessional.  He  had  said  a 
short,  tremulous  prayer  before  the  Blessed  Sacrament ; 
had  cast  a  look  of  piteous  appeal  towards  the  Lady 
Altar,  and  with  a  thrill  of  fear  and  joy  commingled,  he 


104  LUKE  DELMEGE 

slipped  quietly  past  the  row  of  penitents,  and  put  on 
his  surplice  and  stole.  Then  he  reflected  for  a  moment, 
and  drew  the  slide.  A  voice  from  the  dark  recess, 
quavering  with  emotion,  commenced  the  Confiteor  in 
Irish.  Luke  started  at  the  well-known  words,  and 
whispered  Deo  gratias.  It  was  an  ancient  mariner,  and 
the  work  was  brief.  But  Luke  recollected  all  the 
terrible  things  he  had  heard  about  dumb  and  statuesque 
confessors  ;  and  that  poor  Irishman  got  a  longer  lecture 
than  he  had  heard  for  many  a  day. 

"  I  must  be  a  more  outrageous  sinner  even  than  I 
thought,"  he  said.  "  I  never  got  such  a  ballyragging 
in  my  life  before  !  " 

Luke  drew  the  slide  at  his  left ;  and  a  voice,  this  time 
of  a  young  girl,  whispered  lioarsely :  — 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  confession,  Feyther ;  but  I  'eard  as 
you  wos  from  Hireland,  and  I  kem  to  arsk  assistance 
to  tek  me  out  of  'ell  I  " 

"  By  all  means,  my  child,"  said  Luke,  shivering,  "if  I 
can  assist  you  in  any  way  ;  but  why  do  you  say  that 
you  are  not  going  to  confession  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  prepared,  Feyther.  I  ain't  been  to  confes- 
sion since  I  left  the  convent  school,  five  years  are 
gone." 

"  And  you've  been  in  London  all  this  time  ?  " 

'•'  Yaas,  Feyther  ;  I've  been  doin'  bad  altogether. 
It's  'ell,  Feytiier,  and  I  want  to  git  out  o'  'ell  !  " 

"  Well,  but  how  can  I  assist  you  ?  " 

"  Ev  you  gi'  me  my  passage,  Feyther,  to  Waterford, 
ril  beg  the  rest  of  the  way  to  my  huncle  in  the  County 
Kilkenny.     And  so  'elp  me  God,  Feyther — " 

"  Sh — h — h  !  "  said  Luke.  A  cold  pers[)iration  had 
broken  out  all  over  his  body.  It  was  the  first  time  Jie 
Avas  brouo'ht  face  to  face  with  the  dread  euibodiment  of 
vice. 

His  next  penitent  was  a  tiny  dot,  with  a  calm,  English 
face,  and  yellow  ringlets  running  down  almost  to  her 
feet.  Her  mother,  dressed  in  black,  took  the  child  to  the 
confessional  door,  bade  her  enter,  and  left  her.      Here 


ALBION  105 

even  the  mother,  in  all  other  ■  things  inseparable  from 
her  child,  must  not  accompany.  The  threshold  of  the 
confessional  and  the  threshold  of  death  are  sacred  to 
the  soul  and  God.  Unlike  the  Irish  children,  who  jump 
up  like  jacks-in-the-box,  and  toss  back  the  black  hair 
from  their  eyes,  and  smile  patronizingly  on  their  friend, 
the  confessor,  as  much  as  to  say,  "■  Of  course  you  know 
me  ?  "  this  child  slowly  and  distinctly  said  the  prayers, 
made  her  confession,  and  waited.  Here  Luke  was  in 
his  element,  and  lie  lifted  that  soul  up,  up  into  the  em- 
pyrean, by  coaxing,  gentle,  burning  words  about  our 
Lord,  and  His  love,  and  all  that  was  due  to  Him.  The 
child  passed  out  with  the  smile  of  an  angel  on  her  face. 

"  Wisha,  yer  reverence,  how  my  heart  warmed  to 
you  the  moment  I  see  you.  Sure  lie's  from  the  ould 
counthry,  I  sez  to  meself.  There's  the  red  of  L-eland  in 
his  cheeks,  and  tlie  scint  of  the  ould  sod  hanging  around 
liim.  Wisha,  thin,  yer  reverence,  may  I  be  bould  to 
ask  you  what  part  of  tlie  ould  land  did  ye  come  from?" 

Luke  mentioned  his  natal  place. 

"I  thouu'ht  so.  1  knew  ve  weren't  from  the  North 
or  West.  Wisha,  now  thin,  yer  reverence,  I  wondlier 
did  ye  ever  hear  tell  of  a  Mick  jNIulcahy,  of  Slievereene, 
in  the  County  of  Kerry,  who  wint  North  about  thirty 
years  ago  ?  " 

Luke  regretted  to  say  he  had  never  heard  of  that  dis- 
tinguished rover, 

"  Because  lie  was  my  third  cousin  b}-  the  mother's 
side,  and  I  thouglit  yer  reverence  might  have  hard  of 
him  —  " 

"  1  am  hardly  twenty-three  yet,"  said  Luke,  gently, 
although  he  thought  he  was  losing  valuable  time. 

''Wisha,  God  bless  you;  sure  I  ought  to  have  seen  it. 
I  suppose  1  ought  not  to  mintion  it  here,  _yer  reverence, 
hut  this  is  an  awful  place.  Betune  furriners,  and 
Frinchmen,  and  I-talians,  and  Jews,  and  haythens,  who 
never  hard  the  name  of  God  or  His  Blessed  Mother,  'tis 
as  much  as  we  can  do  to  save  our  })Oor  sowls  — "' 

"  You  ought  to  go  back  to  Ireland,"  said  Luke. 


106  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  Ah  !  wisha,  thin,  'tis  I'd  fly  in  the  mornin'  across 
the  say  to  that  blessed  and  holy  land ;  but  sure,  yer 
reverence,  me  little  girl  is  married  here,  and  I  have  to 
mind  the  childhre  for  her,  whin  she  goes  out  to  work, 
shoreing  and  washing  to  keep  the  bit  in  their  mouths 
— '  In  the  name  av  the  Father,  and  av  the  Son,  and  av 
the  Holy  Ghost.     Amin  — '  " 

"  Father,"  said  a  gentle  voice,  as  Luke  drew  the  other 
slide,  "  I  am  ever  so  grateful  to  you  for  your  kindness 
to  my  little  one.  She's  gone  up  to  the  Lady  Altar  ; 
and  I  never  saw  her  look  half  so  happy  before.  You 
must  have  been  very  gentle  with  my  dear  child." 

Luke's  heart  was  swelling  with  all  kinds  of  sweet 
emotions.  Ah,  yes  !  here,  above  all  places,  does  the 
priest  receive  his  reward.  True,  the  glorious  Mass  has 
its  own  consolations,  sweet  and  unutterable.  So,  too, 
has  the  Office,  with  its  majestic  poetry,  lifting  the  soul 
above  the  vulgar  trivialities  of  life,  and  introducing  it 
to  the  company  of  the  blessed.  So,  too,  has  the  daily, 
hourly  battle  with  vice  the  exhilaration  of  a  noble  con- 
flict ;  but  nowhere  are  human  emotions  stirred  into  such 
sweet  and  happy  delight  as  when  soul  speaks  to  soul, 
and  the  bliss  of  forgiveness  is  almost  merged  in  the 
ecstasy  of  emancipation,  and  the  thrill  of  determina- 
tion to  be  true  to  promise  and  grateful  to  God.  Here 
is  the  one  thing  that  Protestantism  —  the  system  of  in- 
dividualism and  pride  —  never  can,  and  never  will, 
fathom. 

With  something  akin  to  rapture,  Luke  Delmege  put 
off  his  surplice  and  stole,  after  a  hard  afternoon's 
work,  and  knelt  and  blessed  God  for  having  made  him 
a  priest. 


CHAPTER   IX 

THE   REALMS   OF   DIS 

And  now  commenced  a  strange  life  for  our  young 
Levite — a  life  whose  circumstances  clearly  obliterated 
every   lingering  trace  of   desire  for  far,  heroic  deeds, 
which,  like  martyrdom,  would  mean  one  short  spasm  of 
pain,  and  then — the  eternal  laurels.     He  began  to  feel 
that  there  was  something  even  higher  and  nobler  than  all 
this  —  the  daily,  hourly  martyrdom  of  conflict  with  Satan 
and  sin  —  the  struggle  with  evil  in  its  Protean  shapes  — 
evil  preached  from  house  tops  in  strong,  Satanic  accents 
—  or  more  mildly  through  tlie  press  and  literature,  from 
the  boards  of  theatres,  and  the  millions  of  pamphlets  and 
leaflets,  that  fell,  like  the  flakes  of  fire  in  the  h{ferno^ 
on  the  raw  and  festering  souls  of  men.       Sometimes  he 
walked,  for  study's  sake,  through  crowded  streets,  or 
watched  the  hideous  mass  of  humanity  from  the  roof  of 
an   omnibus.      Sometimes  he  would   stand  for  a  dizzy 
moment  at  a  chemist's  window  in  London  Road,  and 
stare  at  the  swirling,  heaving,  tossing  tide  of  humanity 
that   poured   through  tlie  narrow  aqueduct.      Never  a 
look  or  word  of  recognition  amongst  these  atoms,  who 
stared  steadily  before  them  into  space,  each  intent  on 
coming  uppermost  by  some  natural  princii)le  of  selec- 
tion.    Luke  began  to  have  bad  dreams.     Sometimes  he 
dreamt  of  the  city  as  a  huge  dead  carcass,  swarming 
with    clotted    masses    of    maggots,   that    squirmed  and 
rolled  in    its   dread  putrescence.      Sometimes  he  saw 
Britannia,  as  pictured  on  coins,   with  her  helmet  and 
trident ;    but   there   hung  a  huge  goitre  on   lier   neck, 

107 


108  LUKE  DELMEGE 

and  that  was  London.  But  most  often  he  saw  the  city 
as  a  tenth  circle  in  the  cittd  dolente.  Pale  ghosts  wan- 
dered through  dark  and  narrow  streets,  or  herded  in 
fetid  alle3^s.  They  appeared  to  be  absorbed  in  a 
silent,  but  dread  and  exorbitant  quest.  What  it  was, 
Luke  could  not  see.  Some  found  the  desirable  thing, 
and  tried  to  walk  along  unconcernedly  for  fear  of  being 
robbed  ;  but  there  were  dark  sentinels  posted  along  the 
avenues,  who  glided  from  their  lairs  and  stole  the  prize 
even  from  the  most  wary  passengers.  And  over  all  was 
the  smoke  of  Hell  and  the  brown  twilight  of  the  realms 
of  Dis. 

After  this  dread  dream,  Avliich  he  was  unable  to  shake 
off  for  many  days,  he  never  saw  London  but  as  a  shadowy 
picture  of  sombre  and  lurid  lights.  Whether  the  early 
sunsettings  of  September  lighted  the  blind  streets  ;  or 
tlie  tender  grays  of  October  threw  a  haze  around  the 
dying  splendours  of  parks  and  terraces  —  he  saw  only 
the  London  of  his  dream  —  terram  desertam,  et  tenehro- 
sam,  et  opertam  mortis  ealigine.  He  began  to  be  alarmed 
for  his  health,  and  he  visited  a  certain  physician.  A 
long  statement  of  symptoms,  etc.,  under  the  keen  eyes 
of  ^Esculapius.  Prompt  reply  :  "  Late  suppers.  L'isli 
stomach  not  yet  habituated  to  English  roast  beef  and 
potted  salmon.     All  will  come  right  soon.     Work  !  " 

Luke  took  the  prescription,  and  faithfully  followed 
it.  He  worked  in  schools  and  slums,  in  confessional 
and  pulpit,  in  hospital  and  asylum,  till  his  fine  face  and 
figure  began  to  be  known  ;  and  threw  a  sunbeam  into 
the  tenebrous  and  sordid  places  where  he  had  to  go. 
And  some  one  said  —  it  was  a  holy  L-ish  nun  —  "God 
sent  you  !  "  Ah  !  These  wonderful  nuns  !  The  glo- 
rious vivandieres  in  the  march  of  the  army  of  Christ ! 
No  stars  bedeck  them,  or  crosses  :  no  poet  sings  them  ; 
no  trumpets  blare  around  their  rougli  and  toilsome 
march  and  struggle  ;  but  some  day  the  bede-roll  will 
be  called,  and  the  King's  right  hand  will  pin  on  their 
breasts  the  cross  of  His  Legion  of  Honour.  And  often 
and  often,  as  Luke's  heart  failed  him,  and  he  felt  he  was 


THE   REALMS   OF   DIS  109 

powerless  against  the  awful  iniquity  that  surged  around 
him,  the  sight  of  these  Sisters,  moving  quietly  through 
hideous  slums,  and  accepting  insults  as  calmly  as  their 
worldl}^^  sisters  receive  compliments  ;  or  their  white  lips 
blanched  by  the  foul  air  of  their  schools,  and  the  reek- 
ing sorties  that  exhaled  from  the  clothes  of  these  poor 
waifs,  whom  they  were  rescuing  from  Stygian  horrors, 
smote  him  with  shame,  and  nerved  him  by  the  tonic  of 
noble  example  for  far  higher  and  greater  work.  And 
over  all  the  faetor,  and  smoke,  and  horror  played  lam- 
bent flaslies  of  Celtic  wit  and  liumour,  as  brave  men  jest 
when  shells  are  crashing  and  bullets  are  singing  around 
them.  "Come,  see  our  recreation  garden,"  said  one, 
who  seemed  to  want  recreation  badly,  so  pale  and  hol- 
low-cheeked she  looked.  She  led  him  up  five  flights  of 
stairs,  then  bade  hini  go  out  on  the  leads  and  look.  He 
did  and  stood.  There  was  a  square  patch  of  blue  over- 
head. All  around  were  brick  walls.  It  was  the  recrea- 
tion ground  of  a  prison.  He  passed  around  the  parapet, 
and  touclied  with  his  hand  the  grimy  ledges  wliere 
the  London  smoke  was  festei'ing.  And  such  little 
patlietic  stories  as  of  the  child  who  shouted  :  "  D — n 
you,  don't  drown  me  !  "  when  tlie  baptismal  waters  were 
j)Oured  upon  her  head ;  or  the  pretty  ancient  legend  of 
tlie  mariner  convert,  wlio  could  never  get  beyond 
'•Father,  Son,  and  Holy  —  Water;"  or  the  apology  of 
tiie  old  Irish  apple-woman  for  not  being  able  to  recog- 
nize the  Figure  of  the  Crucified,  "  because,  ma'am,  I 
haven't  my  spectacles  wid  me,  and  my  sight  is  wake."" 
Ah  mc  !  These  are  the  little  tragic  amusements  of 
mighty  martyrs  in  the  crowded  amphitheatre  of  Loji- 
don  life.  Sometimes,  too,  when  Luke  felt  as  an  airy, 
gauze-winged  butterfly,  beating  vain  wings  against  the 
granite  walls  of  ignorance  or  vice,  and  his  heart  sank 
down  in  despair,  the  feeble  courtesy  and  "God  bless 
you  !  "  of  a  poor  woman,  or  the  smile  of  a  London 
flower-girl,  with  lier  pretty  little  bow,  and,  "  Do,  please, 
Father,"  —  would  inspirit  liim.  Or  when  striding  along 
some   populous  street,  with  all  the  gaudy  "Arrys  and 


no  LUKE  DELMEGE 

ilippant  'Arriets  around,  he  would  dream  of  Ireland, 
and  what  she  might  have  been,  suddenly  a  band,  with  a 
green  flag  and  golden  harp,  and  a  rush  of  green-and- 
gold  uniforms,  would  burst  upon  him  with  music  and 
colour,  and  every  man  would  give  the.  military  salute, 
there  as  they  tramped  the  London  pavement  in  military 
order,  to  their  3^oung  beloved  officer.  And  he  would 
say  to  himself :  "  A  race  to  work  for  and  die  for,  with 
all  their  faults."  And  above  all  would  float  the  far-off 
dream  of  the  white,  thatched  cottage  above  the  cliffs, 
and  tlie  murmur  of  the  sea,  and  the  purity  and  sim- 
plicity that  o'er-canopied  with  clouds  of  gold  the  azure 
vault  that  bent  above  his  Irish  home  at  Lisnalee. 

Luke  preached  his  first  sermon  very  much  to  his  own 
satisfaction.  He  had  heard  ever  so  many  times  tliat 
what  was  required  in  England  was  a  series  of  contro- 
versial and  argumentative  sermons  that  might  be  con- 
vincing rather  than  stimulating.  Then  one  day  he  read 
in  a  Church  newspaper  that  a  certain  Anglican  divine 
had  declared  that  Calvinism  was  the  bane  and  curse  of 
the  Church  of  England.  Here  then  was  the  enemy  — 
to  be  exorcised  by  a  course  of  vigorous  lectures  on 
Grace.  Here  Luke  was  master.  The  subject  had 
formed  part  of  the  fourth  year's  curriculum  in  college, 
and  Luke  had  explored  it  to  its  deepest  depth.  He 
read  up  his  "  Notes,"  drafted  fifteen  pages  of  a  discourse, 
committed  it  to  memory,  and  delivered  it  faultlessly, 
with  just  a  delicious  flavour  of  a  Southern  brogue,  which 
was  captivating  to  the  greater  part  of  his  audience,  and 
delightful  from  its  very  quaintness  and  originality  to 
the  lesser  and  more  select.  Now,  Luke  was  a  Molinist, 
and  he  told  his  congregation  so.  He  demolished  Calvin 
and  Knox  first,  and  when  he  had  stowed  away  all  that 
was  left  of  them,  he  told  his  wondering  and  admiring 
audience  that  the  Thomist  and  Scotist  positions  had 
been  carried  by  assault,  and  that  the  Molinist  flag  was 
now  waving  above  the  conquered  garrisons.  Many 
more  things  he  told  them,  as  their  wonder  grew ;  and 


THE    REALMS   OF   DIS  111 

when  Luke  stepped  down  from  the  pulpit,  he  felt  that 
the  conversion  of  England  had  now  in  reality  begun. 
Not  that  he  was  very  vain ;  but  it  was  hard  to  get  rid 
of  the  ideas  that  six  years  of  success  and  flattery  had 
imprinted  on  a  very  plastic  and  susceptible  character. 
And  Luke  felt  much  in  the  same  position  he  had  so 
often  occupied  in  Maynooth,  when  he  spun  syllogisms 
as  a  spider  spins  his  webs,  and  drew  unwary  flies  into 
their  viscous  and  deadly  clutches. 

The  opinion  of  the  congregation  varied.  That  very 
large  section  in  every  congregation  to  whom  the  deliv- 
ery of  a  sermon  is  a  gymnastic  exercise,  which  has  no 
reference  to  the  audience  other  than  as  spectators,  con- 
sidered that  it  was  unique,  original,  but  pedantic.  One 
or  two  young  ladies  declared  that  he  had  lovely  eyes, 
and  that  when  he  got  over  the  hrusquerie  of  his  Irish 
education,  he  would  be  positively  charming.  One  old 
apple-woman  challenged  another  :  — 

"•  What  was  it  all  about,  Mary  ?  " 

"  Yerra,  how  could  I  know  ?  Sure  it  vras  all  Latin. 
But  I  caught  the  'grace  of  God '  sometimes." 

"Well,  the  grace  o'  God  and  a  big  loaf  —  sure  that's 
all  we  want  in  this  world." 

A  rough  workman,  in  his  factory  dress,  asked  :  — 

"  Who  is  this  young  man  ?  " 

"  A  new  hand  they've  taken  on  at  the  works  here," 
said  his  mate. 

The  opinions  of  the  clergy  were  not  audibly  expressed. 
Luke,  indeed,  heard  one  young  man  hint  broadly  at  the 
"  windmill,"  by  which  he  understood  his  own  gestures 
were  meant.  And  another  said  something  about  a 
"pum[)-handle."  A  young  Irish  confrere  stole  to 
Luke's  room  late  that  night,  and  on  being  bidden  to 
"come  in,"  lie  threw  his  arms  around  Luke,  thumped 
him  on  the  back,  ran  w\)  and  down  the  rooui  several 
times,  and  went  through  sundry  Celtic  gyrations  ; 
then  :  — 

"■  Luke,  old  man,  I'll  tell  you,  you've  knocked  them 
all  into  a  cocked  hat." 


112  LUKE  DELMEGE 

The  Vicar- General  said  nothing  for  a  few  days  ; 
then  :  — 

"  Dehnege,  have  you  got  any  more  of  these  sermons  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;   I  have  the  series  in  '  Notes.'  " 

"  Burn  them  !  " 

"  Take  the  Dublin  Review  to  your  room,  volume  by 
volume,"  he  added,  "and  study  it.  You've  got  quite 
on  the  wrong  tack." 

Luke  had  his  first  sick-call.  It  was  urgent.  A  ma- 
rine was  dying  down  at  the  Naval  Hospital  near  Stoke- 
port.  With  all  the  alacrity  of  a  young  missioner,  Luke 
passed  rapidly  through  the  streets,  entered  the  huge 
archway  of  the  hospital,  inquired  the  way  hastily  from 
a  passer-by,  was  directed  to  a  hall-door,  knocked,  and 
was  ushered  by  a  trim  servant-maid  into  a  handsomely 
furnished  drawing-room. 

"  Very  unlike  a  hospital  ward,"  thought  Luke. 
"  Perhaps  the  parlour  of  one  of  the  nurses  or  the  matron." 

He  was  left  here  for  a  long  time,  wondering  at  the 
pictures  and  books,  the  dainty  accumulations  of  years 
by  some  soul  that  evidently  had  taste  and  wherewith  to 
satisfy  it.  Then  the  door  softly  opened,  and  a  clergy- 
man, clad  in  library  costume,  short  coat,  etc.,  entered, 
gravely  saluted  him,  bade  him  be  seated,  and  commenced 
a  calm,  serious  conversation.  Luke's  bewilderment  was 
increasing,  and  with  it  an  ever-deepening  anxiety  about 
his  poor  patient,  who  then  and  now  might  be  struggling 
in  his  death  agony.  He  never  saw  his  mistake,  until  at 
last  he  rose,  and  the  clergyman  escorted  him  to  the 
door,  and  thanked  him  for  his  friendly  visit.  He  had 
sense  enough  left  to  ask  the  way  to  the  hospital,  which 
was  kindly  pointed  out,  and  where  he  found  his  patient 
in  the  death-agony  and  unconscious. 

The  dying  man  lay  in  a  little  cot  at  the  right-hand 
side  of  the  long,  empty  ward.  There  was  no  other 
patient  there.  An  attendant,  clad  in  brown  cloth,  dec- 
orated with  brass  buttons,  sat  on  the  bed,  coolly  reading 
a  newspaper.     The  hand  of  death  was  on  the  face  of 


THE   REALMS   OF   DIS  113 

the  poor  consumptive.  His  eyes  were  glazed,  and  the 
gray  shadow  flitted  up  and  down  at  each  convulsive 
breath. 

"  Is  this  the  Catholic  patient  ?  "  asked  Luke,  anxiously. 

"  Yaas,  he  be  a  Cawtholic,  I  understan',"  said  the 
man. 

"  He  is  dying,"  said  Luke,  who  had  never  seen  death 
before. 

"  Dead  in  hexactly  twanty  minutes,"  said  the  man, 
taking  out  his  watch  and  measuring  the  time.  He  re- 
stored the  watch  to  his  pocket  and  continued  reading 
tlie  paper. 

This  awful  indifference  smote  Luke  to  the  heart.  He 
knelt  down,  put  his  stole  around  his  neck,  tried  to  elicit 
an  act  indicative  of  conscious  sorrow  from  the  dying, 
failed,  gave  conditional  absolution,  administered  Extreme 
Unction,  and  read  the  prayers  for  the  dying.  The 
attendant  continued  absorbed  in  his  paper.  Then  Luke 
sat  down  by  the  bedside,  watched  the  flitting  changes 
on  the  face  of  the  dying  whilst  murmuring  a  prayer. 
Exactly  at  the  twenty  minutes  specified  the  man  rose 
up.  folded  liis  pai)er,  stretched  himself,  and  looked.  A 
last  spasm  flashed  across  the  gray,  ashen  face  of  the  dy- 
ing ;  the  breathing  stopped,  fluttered,  stopped  again,  came 
slowly  and  with  painful  efl^ort,  sloi)ped  again,  then  a 
long,  deep  breatli,  the  eyes  turned  in  their  sockets. 
That  soul  had  fled.  A  mucous  foam  instantly  gathered 
on  the  ])lue  lips  and  filled  the  entire  mouth. 

"  Did  I  tell  'ee  ?  Twanty  minutes  to  the  second," 
said  the  man,  as  he  wiped  the  foam  from  the  dead  man's 
lips,  and  lifted  the  coverlet,  flinging  it  lightly  over  the 
face  of  the  dead  man. 

It  was  this  cool  indifference  that  smote  the  senses  of 
Luke  most  keenly.  For  a  long  time  he  could  not  lV;ime 
a  word  to  express  it,  as  it  appeared  to  him.  Tlieii  he 
stumbled  on  what  he  afterwards  regarded  as  the  strong- 
est characteristic  of  this  English  people  —  their  sur- 
prising ''  individualism."  For  while  the  unit  was 
nothing  in  this  seething  turmoil  of  millions,  the  indi- 
I 


114  LUKE  DELMEGE 

vidual  was  everything  to  himself.  Society  might  ignore 
him,  despise  him,  calculate  him  ;  but  he,  understanding 
all  this,  went  his  own  way,  unheeding  and  indifferent 
—  a  solitary  in  the  awful  desert  of  teeming  human  life. 
Everywhere  it  was  the  same.  Whilst  all  around  the 
splendid  materialism  of  England  asserted  and  showed 
itself  ;  whilst  shops  were  packed  full  of  every  kind  of 
luxury  and  necessary,  and  the  victuallers  and  pork- 
butchers  vied  with  the  fruit-sellers  in  exhibiting  every 
form  of  human  food  ;  whilst  public  baths  were  spring- 
ing up  in  all  directions,  and  everything  ministering 
to  human  wants  was  exhibited  in  superabundance  ; 
whilst  a  perfect  system  of  police  and  detective  super- 
vision guarded  human  life  and  safety,  each  solitary 
individual  walked  his  way  alone.  You  might  live  in 
a  street  for  twenty  years  and  not  know  the  name  of 
your  next-door  neighbour ;  and  you  seemed  to  be 
labelled  and  ticketed  for  State  purposes,  without  the 
slightest  reference  to  your  own  well-being,  except  so 
far  as  you  were  a  component  unit  of  the  State.  It  was 
a  huge  piece  of  perfect  and  polished  mechanism  —  cold, 
clean,  shining,  smooth,  and  regular ;  but  with  no  more 
of  a  soul  than  a  steam-engine.  Often  when  the  dread 
rattle  and  roar  of  the  huge  meclianism  tortured  the 
overworked  nerves  of  Luke  Delmege,  and  he  felt  as  if 
he  had  been  condemned  for  life  to  be  imprisoned  in 
some  huge,  infernal  Tartarus  of  cranks  and  wheels,  and 
the  everlasting  roar  of  steam  and  machinery,  he  would 
steal  into  some  quiet  street,  where,  hidden  and  unseen, 
as  God  in  the  mighty  mechanism  of  the  universe, 
crouched  some  humble  church  ;  and  sitting  on  the  rude 
benches  he  would  watch  for  an  hour  or  two  the  red 
lamp  swinging  before  the  tabernacle,  and  break  out 
into  a  soliloquy  to  ease  his  overburdened  heart  :  — 

"  Lord,  Lord  !  how  lonely  and  silent,  how  hidden  and 
neglected  Thou  art  !  Of  all  the  millions  who  swarm 
in  this  hideous  city,  how  many,  how  few,  are  aware  of 
Thy  awful  Presence  !  There  they  pass  and  repass.  Thy 
creatures,  made  by    Thy  hands,  and  yet  to  return  to 


THE   REALMS   OF   DIS  115 

Thee  !  They  are  bent  on  business,  on  pleasure,  on  sin ; 
but  Thou  art  silent  and  they  do  not  know  that  Thou 
art  near  !  Thy  name  is  cried  in  the  street ;  but  Thou, 
the  dread  reality,  art  but  an  abstraction  and  chimera  ! 
They  think  of  Thee,  as  afar  off  on  Sinai  or  Calvary  ; 
they  do  not  know  that  Thou  art  here  within  touch  of 
their  hand  and  sound  of  their  voice.  Weary  statesmen, 
burdened  and  overladen  with  thought,  are  yonder  in 
that  pile.  They  want  wisdom,  but  know  not  where  to 
seek  it  —  world-wisdom,  for  they  rule  the  world,  and 
have  assumed  Thy  prerogatives  and  responsibilities 
without  the  knowledge  that  could  enlighten,  or  the 
judgment  that  can  discern  !  And  there  close  by  is  the 
mighty  temple  where  once  Thy  praises  were  sung  and 
Thy  Sacred  Presence  rested  ;  but  '  Ichabod '  is  now 
written  over  its  porches.  Not  Thy  Presence,  but  the 
dust  of  many  who  have  done  Thee  dishonour,  is  there. 
And  here  around  are  souls  perishing  from  hunger  and 
feeding  on  husks  ;  and  they  have  forgotten  to  cry  to 
their  Father  for  bread.  Verily,  Tliou  art  a  hidden 
God,  and  the  world  does  not  know  Tliee  !  " 

This  loneliness  of  our  Lord  in  His  London  tabernacles 
invariably  led  Luke  to  the  cognate  reflection  of  the 
loneliness  of  God  and  His  hiddenness  in  His  universe. 
He  was  rather  drawn  to  this  reflection  by  the  habit  he 
had  acquired  of  meditating  on  the  ineffable  attributes 
of  God,  since  the  day  when  his  venerable  professor  told 
an  admiring  class  that  he  liad  remained  up  half  the 
night  before,  absorbed  in  a  reverie,  after  liaving  read 
Lessius  on  the  ministry  and  prerogatives  of  the  angels. 
But  whereas,  in  the  lonely  fields  and  on  the  silent  seas 
and  lakes  of  Ireland,  he  had  been  penetrated  only  by 
the  majesty  and  immensity  of  the  Creator,  liere  in 
seething,  riotous,  tumultuous  London,  the  loneliness 
of  God  affected  him  even  to  tears. 

"  To-night,"  he  said,  "  in  all  England,  but  two  or 
three  small  communities  will  watcli  with  God.  To- 
night, whilst  all  England  with  its  tliirty  millions  are 
asleep,  one  or  two  tiny  communities,  there  in  Devon- 


116  LUKE  DELMEGE 

shire,  here  in  Parkminster,  there  in  Leicester,  will 
startle  the  solemnity  of  the  night  with  psalms  of  praise 
and  canticles  of  adoration.  '  Praise  the  Lord,  all  ye 
nations  ;  praise  Him,  all  ye  people.'  Alas  !  no.  All 
the  nations  and  all  the  peoples  are  busy  with  other 
things,  and  the  Lord  of  the  universe,  bending  down  to 
hear  the  voices  of  the  darkness,  of  the  earth,  must  turn 
back  with  disappointment  to  the  tumultuous  worship 
of  His  Heaven." 

And  then  the  thought  startled  him  —  could  it  be 
that  God  is  as  forgotten  in  the  vast  Heavens  as  on 
earth  ?  Are  all  the  mighty  spirits  that  people  the 
universe,  hover  over  infant  planets,  guide  colossal 
suns,  revel  in  the  crimson  and  golden  belts  of  far  fairer 
worlds  than  ours,  and  are  endowed  with  higher  and 
more  perfect  faculties  and  senses  —  are  all  these  im- 
mortals as  forgetful  of  God  as  we  ?  And  is  God  as 
lonely  in  His  universe  as  here  amongst  the  five  millions 
of  London  ?  It  was  a  dreadful  thought,  but  impossible  ! 
It  is  only  on  earth  that  the  mighty  Maker  is  ignored. 
More  shame  for  those  who  know  Him — to  whom  He 
hath  revealed  Himself  ! 

And  then  Luke's  thoughts  would  turn  to  Ireland  of 
the  saints. 

"  It  ought  to  be  a  vast  monaster}^"  he  said ;  "  one 
grand,  everlasting  choir  of  psalm  and  hymn,  where  the 
praises  of  God  would  never  cease  —  never  know  pause 
or  suspension  day  or  night." 

Alas  !  he  did  not  know  until  after  many  years  how 
far  the  splendid  materialism  of  England  had  infected 
and  attenuated  the  spiritualism  of  Ireland  ;  and  how 
hearts  were  throbbing,  and  eyes  looking  far  forward 
and  eagerly,  and  ears  were  straining  for  the  rumble  of 
machinery  and  the  mechanism  of  Mammon,  rather  than 
for  the  thunder  of  mighty  organs  and  the  raptures  of 
exultant  choirs. 

Nor  did  he  know  how  the  spirit  of  the  supernatural 
in  his  own  breast  was  already  pluming  its  wings  for 
flight,  and  how  new  ideas  —  the  spirit  of  the  age — ' 


THE   REALMS   OF   DIS  117 

were  supplanting  it.  He  only  felt  dimly  that  he  was 
carried  on,  on,  on  in  the  whirl  and  tumult  of  some 
mighty  mechanism ;  that  the  whir  of  revolving  wheels, 
the  vibration  of  belts,  the  thunder  of  engines,  tlie  hiss 
of  steam,  were  everywhere.  And  tliat  from  all  this 
tremendous  energy  were  woven  fair  Englisli  tapestries 
—  stately  palaces  and  ancestral  forests,  trim  viUas  and 
gardens  like  Eastern  carpets  —  and  that  the  huge  ma- 
chinery also  tossed  aside  its  refuse  and  slime — the 
hundreds  of  thousands  that  festered  and  perished  in 
the  squalor  of  the  midnight  cities.  For  over  all  Eng- 
land, even  in  midsummer,  hangs  a  Ijlue  haze,  and  over 
its  cities  the  aer  bruno,  in  Avhich  the  eye  of  the  poet 
saw  floating  the  spirits  of  the  lost. 

He  stepped  from  the  silences  of  God  and  the  roar  of 
London  was  in  his  ears. 


CHAPTER   X 
"THE   STRAYED   REVELLER" 

Doctor  Wilson  was  in  his  study.  He  was  engaged 
with  a  patient.  So  the  faithful  servitor  told  tlie  few 
jaundiced  patients  who  were  waiting  below  and  striv- 
ing under  a  rather  sickly  gas-jet  to  read  The  Ciraphic 
and  The  Jester  ;  or  mutually  comparing  each  other's  liver 
symptoms,  and  talking  of  the  latest  pharmaceutical  won- 
der. Dr.  Wilson's  patient,  or  patients,  were  of  a  pecul- 
iar type  ;  and  he  was  searching  diligently  for  one  whom 
he  failed  to  find.  There  they  were  —  all  yet  discovered, 
—  invisible  to  you  or  me  ;  but  plainly  visible  there  in 
tliat  dark  chamber,  under  the  tiny  moon  of  light  cast 
from  a  reflector.  Unseen  themselves,  but  agents  of  un- 
seen powers  for  the  destruction  of  human  tissue,  and 
therefore  of  human  life,  they  swarmed  under  the  micro- 
scope ;  and  Wilson  felt  about  as  comfortable  as  in  a 
powder  magazine,  or  with  a  charge  of  dynamite  beneath 
his  feet.  But  he  would  find  it  —  that  —  microbe  of  hy- 
drophobia, which  no  man  had  yet  discovered;  he  would 
find  it  and  write  a  treatise  on  it,  and  then  —  Sir  Athel- 
stan  Wilson  ! 

"  Come  in  !  " 

"  Mrs.  Wilson  would  like  to  know,  sir,  whether  you 
intend  going  to  the  theatre  to-night." 

"  No  !  "  sharp  and  laconic.     Then  — 

"  Send  up  those  patients ;  let  me  see  —  Mr.  Carnegie." 

Louis  Wilson  heard  his  father's  decision,  heard  and 
rejoiced. 

"  I  shall  accompany  you,  mother." 

"  No,  dear.     I  shall  not  go. " 

118 


"THE    STRAYED    REVELLER"  119 

Louis  Wilson  regretted  the  decision  deeply,  but  smiled. 

Mrs.  Wilson  idolized  her  son.  Louis  Wilson  despised 
his  mother.  Her  worship  disgusted  and  amazed  him. 
His  contempt  intensified  her  idolatry.  He  played  on 
her  wretched  feelings  as  on  a  shattered  and  shrieking 
instrument,  —  petted  her,  laughed  at  her,  coaxed  her, 
contemned  her,  made  her  furious  with  passion  or  maud- 
lin with  love,  repelled  her,  as  at  a  dinner  party  a  few 
evenings  before,  when  he  hissed  at  her  behind  his  cards  : 
"  Hold  your  tongue,  and  don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself  ; " 
won  her  back  by  a  lurid  description  of  London  revels, 
in  which  he  played  no  inconsiderable  a  part.  Of  his 
father  he  was  somewhat  afraid,  probably  because  he  had 
to  look  to  him  for  wa3^s  and  means.  There  had  been 
one  or  two  scenes  by  reason  of  certain  debts  that  Louis 
had  contracted  ;  and  the  father,  to  relieve  his  feelings, 
used  language  somewhat  stronger  than  is  sanctioned  by 
conventional  usage.  Louis  regarded  him  coolly,  told  him 
such  expressions  were  ungentlemanly,  that  he  had  never 
heard  the  like  amongst  the  high  elemental  society  in 
which  he  moved  —  in  a  word,  made  his  father  tlioroughly 
ashamed  of  himself.  But  there  are  certain  limits  even 
to  a  doctor's  finances  ;  and  Louis,  once  or  twice,  had  to 
look  elsewhere.  This  did  not  increase  his  filial  affection, 
whicli  now  was  blended  with  dread  and  hate,  disgust 
and  aversion. 

"  I  think  I  shall  have  a  cigar,  then,"  said  Louis  to  his 
mother.     "  I  shall  hardly  return  to  supper." 

"•  Tiie  Doctor  won't  like  to  see  you  absent,  Louis," 
said  his  mother. 

"  'Tis  his  night  at  the  Lodge,"  said  Louis.  "  He  won't 
miss  me.' 

The  last  patient  (all  but  the  hydrophobic  microbe, 
who  positively  refused  to  be  diagnosed  or  to  pay  a  fee) 
was  dismissed  ;  the  last  guinea  pocketed  ;  the  last  entry 
made ;  and  the  Doctor,  a  wearied  man,  with  a  weight  of 
care  showing  in  gray  hairs  and  puckered  eyes,  entered 
the  drawing-room. 

"Where's  Louis?"  he  demanded  peremptorily. 


120  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  Gone  out  for  a  cigar,"  said  his  wife. 

"  Confound  that  cub,"  said  the  father.  "  I  believe 
he  hates  his  home  and  despises  us  all." 

"  Now,  really,  Athelstan,  you  are  unjust  to  the  boy. 
You  repel  him,  and,  domesticated  as  he  is,  you  drive 
him  where  he  is  better  appreciated." 

"  Better  appreciated  ?  "  echoed  the  Doctor,  lifting  his 
eyebrows. 

"  Yes,  better  appreciated,"  said  the  good  mother. 
"  You  ignore  the  poor  boy,  and  he  is  frightened  of  you. 
Yet  I  heard  Lady  Alfroth  say  the  other  day  at  the 
levee  that  that  boy  was  a  perfect  Adonis.  What's 
Adonis,  Athelstan  ?  " 

"  Adonis,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  was  an  infamous  puppy, 
who  did  not  reflect  much  credit  on  his  admirer,  nor  she 
on  him.  Does  she  make  herself  the  Venus  of  Euploea 
or  the  Venus  of  Apelles,  Bessie  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  anytliing  about  them,"  said  poor 
mamma.  "  But  I  do  know  that  my  boy  is  admired  by 
the  highest  ladies  of  the  land,  and  that  you'll  drive  him 
to  destruction." 

"  Humph  I  He  is  pretty  far  on  the  road  already. 
Where's  Barbara  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Probabl}^  in  some  of  the  slums,  with 
a  basket  on  her  arm  and  a  poke  bonnet,  like  those  bold 
Salvation  Army  people." 

"  Barbara  should  be  at  home.  Can  it  be  possible  that, 
with  her  domesticated  tastes,  you  may  be  driving  her 
to  destruction  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  do  all  in  my  power  to  bring  her  into 
decent  society.  I  have  had  every  kind  of  invitation 
for  her  —  to  balls  and  tennis  parties  ;  but  the  girl  has 
low  tastes,  I  regret  to  say  —  " 

"  Inherited  from  whom  ?  " 

"  Not  from  me,  certainly.  You  are  constantly  taunt- 
ing me  with  being  too  fond  of  society." 

"  H'm  !  Look  here,  Bessie,  let  us  compromise.  Bring 
up  your  brother,  the  Canon,  and  I'll  give  a  dinner.  Who 
knows  ?  — we  may  meet  an  '  eligible  '  for  Barbara." 


"THE   STRAYED    REVELLER"  121 

"  She'd  rather  be  kneeling  at  the  feet  of  a  friar,"  said 
Mrs.  Wilson;  but  her  heart  jumped  at  the  suggestion. 

"  Well,  that  is  low  enough,"  said  the  Doctor;  and  he 
laughed  at  his  little  pun. 

"  Whom  shall  we  ask?"  said  Mrs.  Wilson. 

"  Oh  !  it  makes  no  matter.  The  Canon  will  obliterate 
everybody.  By  the^way,  isn't  there  a  big  English 
preacher  coming  over  here  soon  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Wilson.  Her  plans  were  ripening 
to  perfection.  "  He's  a  near  relative  to  the  Duke 
of  B ." 

"  Bessie,  the  gods  are  smiling  on  thee.  If  ever  you 
care  for  Heaven  after  you  have  the  Duke's  relative  at 
your  shoulder,  I'm  an  apothecary.  But,  by  Jove,  won't 
there  be  fun  ?  We'll  pit  the  Canon  against  the  celeb- 
rity:   'twill  be  worth  a  prize-fight  in  Arizona." 

"What  day  shall  we  say?"  asked  Mrs.  Wilson,  who 
bore  her  husband's  bantering  by  reason  of  her  triumph. 

"Any  day  you  please,  but  immediately  after  the  Horse 
Show.  Calthrop  is  coming  over,  and  I  want  to  show 
him  something  worth  remembering." 

'^  'lliat  horrid  fellow  from  Cambridge,  who  wrote 
about  germs  and  things  ?  '* 

"Exactly.  He  is  the  leading  germinologist  of  the 
day,  except  Weismann." 

"  Will  lie  wear  his  apron  —  and  —  things  ?  'Twould 
be  liardly  riglit,  you  know,  in  the  presence  of  the 
clergy." 

"  He  will,  then,  and  you'll  see  streaks  of  hell-fire,  red 
and  yellow,  across  his  breast.  Here  goes  for  a  cigar  ! 
If  the  cub  enjoys  a  cigarette,  why  shouhln't  the  old 
bear  enjoy  a  cigar  ?  " 

Mrs.  Wilson  was  alone  with  her  own  thoughts  and 
plans  for  a  few  minutes.  Tlicu  a  gentle  step  was  heard 
on  the  stairs,  and  llarbara,  looking  pale  and  wearied, 
came  in.  She  flung  her  hat  on  the  sofa,  tidied  up  lier 
hair,  and  asked  her  mother  might  she  have  a  cup  of  tea 
there  in  the  drawing-room. 

"I  suppose  you  may,"   said   her  mother,  peevishly. 


■i22  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  Although  I  must  say,  Barbara,  you  would  consult  bet- 
ter for  our  respectability  if  you  would  conform  more 
closely  to  the  requirements  of  elegant  society." 

There  spoke  the  Canon's  sister.  Barbara  said  nothing. 
After  tea  she  drew  over  a  chair,  and,  taking  up  a  maga- 
zine, asked  anxiously  :  — 

"  Where  is  Louis,  mother  ?  " 

"  You  care  little  about  Louis  or  any  of  your  family," 
answered  Mrs.  Wilson  ;  "  if  you  did,  you  would  not 
avoid  meeting  those  who  might  be  of  service  to  us,  and 
affect  the  society  of  the  low  and  disreputable  city 
slums." 

Barbara  was  rather  accustomed  to  these  monologues, 
and  answered  not  at  all.  Mother  should  speak  or  go 
mad. 

"  Your  father  at  last  is  meeting  my  wishes,  and  is 
about  to  entertain.     Can  you  help  me  to  form  a  list  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  mother,"  said  Barbara.  "  Is  it  —  I  hope 
not  —  a  ball  ?  " 

"  No.  That's  some  relief  for  you.  He  is  about  to  invite 
some  distinguished  people  to  dinner  to  meet  the  Canon." 

"  Uncle  ?  " 

"  Yes.     You  seem  surprised." 

"  And  what  persons  —  what  class  are  going  to  meet 
uncle  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  father  would  ask  any  one  that  was 
not  respectable  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  But  if  I  am  to  help  you,  I  must  know  is 
it  a  medical,  a  clerical,  or  a  legal  dinner  ?  " 

"  You  are  becoming  sarcastic,  Barbara,  —  a  dangerous 
accomplishment  for  a  young  lady." 

"  Now,  mother,  let  us  not  bandy  words.  Whom  are 
you  going  to  ask  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  I  want  to  know.  Mr.  Calthrop  is 
coming  over." 

Barbara  laid  down  her  pen,  and  looked  in  pained  sur- 
prise at  her  mother. 

"  Then  you  can't  ask  any  priest  to  meet  Am,"  said 
she. 


"THE   STRAYED    REVELLER"  123 

"I  would  have  you  kuow,"  said  Mrs.  Wilson,  angrily, 
''  that  my  brother  shall  be  the  guest  of  the  occasion.  If 
he  sliould  be  present,  no  other  clergyman  can  object." 

Barbara  was  silent. 

"  We  shall  ask  Monsignor  Dalton  and  Monsignor 
Williams.     Can  you  think  of  any  one  else  ?  " 

"  There  is  Father  Elton,  of Street.  He  is  a  very- 
distinguished  man  —  " 

"  I  am  afraid  it  would  hardly  do  to  ask  any  one 
beneath  his  own  dignity  to  meet  my  brother.  There's 
a  certain  etiquette  in  these  cases." 

"But  Father  Elton  is  a  Fellow  of  the  Royal  Society, 
and  has  frequently  lunched  at  the  Castle." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  ^Irs.  Wilson,  with  a  gasp  of  surprise, 
"  indeed  !  By  all  means  put  down  Father  Elton.  I 
didn  t  know  he  was  so  distinguished.  Then  put  down 
Sir  Archibald  Thompson,  of  the  College  of  Science, 
and  Algy  Redvers,  who  admired  you  so  much  at  the 
Denison's  party,  and  —  " 

''  Mother  ?  " 

"Well?" 

"W'ill  tliey  come?  It  will  be  awkward  if  you  get 
refusals." 

"  Barbara  !  "  said  Mrs.  Wilson,  in  a  faltering  tone, 
"  how  dare  you  say  such  things  !  Will  they  come  ?  I 
should  say  so." 

"  Mother,  must  this  be  ?  " 

"It  nuist,  child,"  said  mother,  weeping  silently,  "but 
I  wish  it  were  over." 

Dr.  Wilson  attended  the  meeting  of  Lodge  No.  8, 
Moulton  Street,  and  was  made  ha])py  thereby.  He  liad 
long  since  learned  that  it  was  only  by  diligent  and  ser- 
vile attention  to  the  plenipotentiaries  who  ruled  the 
Lodges,  and,  indeed,  every  other  department  in  his 
country,  that  he  could  hope  for  advancement  in  his  pro- 
fession. True,  he  had  an  excellent  and  giowing  re[)U- 
tation,  an  excellent  and  growing  and  paying  clientele ; 
for,  after  all,  when  you  have  a  "liver,"  it  makes  very 


124  LUKE  DELMEGE 

little  difference  even  if  it  is  Catholic  boluses,  ordered 
by  Catholic  doctors,  that  relieve  you.  This  is  some- 
times  controverted  at  the  Lodges  ;  and  it  is  maintained 
that  even  bottles  and  pills  should  have  the  compass  and 
square  written  or  indented.  But  a  certain  residuum  of 
desirable  patients  did  trickle  into  the  study  of  Dr.  Wil- 
son, and  that  residuum  created  an  appetite  for  more. 
Then  there  were  certain  honours  and  emoluments  that 
were  absolutely  in  the  gift  of  the  Lodges  ;  and  these 
are  desirable  things,  except  to  a  certain  class  of  fa- 
natics, who,  like  Oriental  fakirs,  prefer  poverty  and 
retirement.  Sometimes,  indeed,  a  "  sop  to  Cerberus  " 
is  flung  to  Catholics,  when  the  tables  are  too  redun- 
dant and  there  are  no  Protestant  mouths  to  feed;  and 
it  is  Christian  and  consoling  to  witness  the  intense  and 
maudlin  gratitude  with  which  the  morsels  are  received 
and  wept  over.  But  how  did  Dr.  Wilson  know  that  he 
would  be  there  when  the  crumbs  fell,  or  that  some  more 
audacious  and  hungry  Papist  might  not  snatch  the  cov- 
eted morsel  ?  This  is  a  matter  admitting  of  no  un- 
certainty. Brother  Wilson,  Lodge  No.  8,  cannot  be 
overlooked. 

-  The  meeting  was  over,  tlie  night  was  moonlit,  and 
Dr.  Wilson  strolled  home  leisurely.  He  was  accosted 
at  the  corner  of  Denton  Street :  — 

"  Friend,  I  owe  thee  something,  and  I  should  wish  to 
repay  thee !  " 

"Oh!  some  other  time,  Mr.  Pyne,"  said  the  Doctor, 
recognizing  a  city  magnate,  one  of  the  last  remnants  of 
the  Quaker  community,  who  are  fast  losing  their  char- 
acteristics and  merging  into  mere  Protestants. 

•"  It  is  not  money  I  owe  tliee,  friend,"  said  the 
Quaker;  "I  have  paid  thee  all  that  was  due;  but  I 
owe  thee  gratitude." 

"A  rare  and  unintelligible  debt,"  thought  the 
Doctor. 

"  I  had  a  iiver,"  continued  the  Quaker,  "  and  I  felt 
like  the  saintly  man  of  old,  who,  when  threatened 
by  the  Pagan  magistrate  —  '  I  shall  drag  the  liver  out 


"THE   STRAYED    REVELLER"  125 

of  thee,'  answered  with  Christian  gentleness,  '  I  wish  to 
God  you  would.'  Now,  thou  hast  liolpen  me  to  bring 
tliat  rebellious  and  ungodly  member  into  better  disposi- 
tions, and  I  am  grateful  to  thee,  and  I  should  wish  to 
repay  thee." 

There  was  a  pause,  the  Doctor  smiling  at  the  Quaker's 
drollery. 

"  Thou  hast  a  son  ?"  said  the  latter,  at  length.  The 
smile  died  from  the  Doctor's  face. 

"  He  is  young  and  inexperienced,  and  he  hath  a  fatal 
gift,"  continued  the  Quaker.  "  And  there  be  a  foolish 
woman,  and  clamorous,  who  sitteth  on  a  seat  in  the 
liigh  places  of  the  city,  and  she  saith,  'Whoso  is  simple, 
let  him  turn  in  hither.'  But  he  knoweth  not  that  the 
dead  are  there,  and  that  her  guests  are  in  the  depths  of 
hell." 

"  This  is  all  pedantic  and  ambiguous,  Pyne,"  said  the 
Doctor,  testily.  "You  mean  something  grave.  Would 
it  not  be  better  to  explain  it  fully  ?  " 

"  Seeing  is  better  than  hearing,"  continued  the 
Quaker,  in  his  solemn  way,  "better  even  than  faith. 
Come." 

He  called  a  cab,  and  the  two  drove  in  silence  along 
winding  streets  and  open  thoroughfares,  until  they 
came  to  a  fashionable  suburb.  Here  the  cab  stopped, 
and  the  two  gentlemen  alighted.  They  moved  I'apidly 
along  the  smooth  pavement  and  stood  before  a  large 
mansion,  whose  hall  and  windows  were  unlighted,  and 
over  which  hung  the  stillness  of  death. 

"  Whatever  thou  seest  here,"  said  the  Quaker,  "  wilt 
thou  promise  to  make  neither  sign  nor  sound  of  recogni- 
tion ?     It  is  important." 

"  Yes,  I  promise,"  said  the  Doctor,  strangely  per- 
turl)ed. 

They  mounted  the  steps  slowly.  The  bell  tinkled, 
and  a  footman  appeared. 

"  Are  the  guests  assembled  ?  "  said  the  Quaker. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  man,  deferentially. 

"  And  the  banquet  ready  ?  " 


126  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  man. 
"  That  will  do.  I  shall  tind  my  own  way." 
He  passed  rapidly  up  the  broad  staircase,  dimly 
lighted  here  and  there  by  a  coloured  lamp.  The  Doctor 
followed.  Their  footsteps  fell  softly  on  the  thick  stair- 
carpet,  and  did  not  disturb  the  solemn  silence.  A  few 
steps  led  off  the  main  stairs.  Here  a  door  was  opened  ; 
but  a  thick  heavy  portiere  hung  down.  The  Quaker 
drew  it  gently  aside,  and  they  found  themselves  in  a 
large  dining-room,  now  fitted  as  a  theatre  ;  but  all  the 
lights  burned  low  until  but  a  faint  twilight  filled  the 
room,  save  at  the  end,  where  a  narrow  stage  was  brill- 
iantly lighted  with  electric  lamps.  Hence  they  stood 
and  then  sat  unseen  by  the  audience  —  a  crowd  of 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  all  in  evening  costume,  and  who 
besides  were  so  interested  by  the  stage-tableau  that 
they  could  not  hear  the  almost  noiseless  entrance  of  tlie 
visitors.  Nor  did  the  visitors  heed  them  ;  for  their 
eyes  were  riveted  on  that  same  stage,  where,  clad  in 
favvnskins,  with  a  thyrsus  in  one  hand  and  a  winecup  in 
the  other,  and  apparently  in  an  advanced  state  of 
intoxication,  was  Louis  Wilson,  in  the  capacity  of  the 
"Strayed  Reveller."  He  sat,  or  rather  reclined,  on  a 
couch,  softened  by  mosses  and  ferns  ;  the  fawnskin  had 
slipped  from  his  shoulder,  which  gleamed  like  marble  ; 
the  dark  curls  hung  low  on  his  neck  as  he  raised  his 
face  upward  towards  the  enchantress  of  Cyprus  — 
Circe.  She  was  clothed  in  Greek  costume,  her  hair 
filleted  and  knotted  by  circlets  of  gold  and  precious 
stones,  and  her  feet  quite  bare.  Near  her  stood  Ulysses, 
grim  and  weather-beaten,  his  mariner's  clothes  rather 
tattered  and  seaworn,  and  on  his  face  was  a  look  of 
gladness  as  of  one  who  had  escaped  shipwreck,  and  yet 
as  of  one  who  had  determined  not  to  be  taken  in  the 
toils  of  the  enchantress.  Circe  was  just  repeating  the 
words  :  — 

Foolish  boy!  why  tremblest  thou? 
Thou  lovest  it,  then,  my  wine  ? 
Wouldst  more  of  it  ?     See,  how  it  glows 


«'THE   STRAYED    REVELLER"  121 

Through  the  delicate  flushed  marble, 

The  red  creaming  liquor, 

Strown  witli  dark  seeds  ! 
Drink,  then  !   I  chide  thee  not, 

Deny  tiiee  not  tlie  bowl. 
Come,  stretch  forth  thy  hand  —  then  —  so. 

Drink,  drink  again  1 


and  Louis  repeated  :  — 

Thanks,  gracious  One! 
-Ah,  the  sweet  fumes  again! 

More  soft,  ah  me ! 

]More  subtle-winding 

Than  Pan's  flute-music. 

Faint  —  faint  I     Ah,  me  ! 
Again  the  sweet  sleep. 

"  I  wish  to  God  he'd  never  wake  out  of  it,"  hissed 
tlie  Doctor.  "  I'd  rather  see  him  dead  a  million  times 
tlian  thus." 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  "  said  the  Quaker.     "  Come  out  I  " 

"No,  I'll  see  the  damnal)le  tiling-  to  the  end,"  hissed 
the  Doctor.  And  they  did.  Then,  with  a  sigh,  the 
Doctor  went  out,  followed  by  his  friend. 

"  What's  all  this  infernal  business  about  ?  "  said  the 
Doctor.     "  What  do  they  call  this  Devil's  Drama  ?  " 

"  Now,  now,  friend,  thou  art  unreasonably  excited," 
said  tlie  Quaker.  "  This  is  a  harmless  poem  enougli  ; 
written  by  a  very  excellent,  good  man  ;  and  now  -.lore 
or  less  degraded  into  what  they  call  Tableaux  Classiqiies. 
If  thou  wert  to  see  thy  excellent  son  as  Perseus,  rescu- 
ing tliat  fair  lady,  Andromeda  —  " 

"•  And  who  is  that  harridan  ?  "  said  the  Doctor. 

"A  most  excellent  wife  and  mother.  Didst  thou 
never  hear  of  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Wenham,  wife  of  oiie 
of  the  aidea-de-camp  to  Lord ?" 

"  Certainly,"  said  liis  comiianion.  Tlie  Doctor  soft- 
ened a  little  under  the  magic  of  the  name,  though  he 
felt  his  son's  degradation  keenly. 

"  And  that  old  Silenus  —  who  is  he  ?  " 

"The  reputabh^  and  pious  Crawford,  whose  name 
stands  behind  six  ligures  at  the  Exchange." 


:28  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  The  old  ranting  hypocrite  !  I  thought  he  did  noth. 
ing  but  cheat  on  the  Exchange,  and  sing  psalms  with 
old  toothless  cats,  and  slander  over  their  tea-tables  !  " 

"  Now,  friend,  thou  art  irritated,  and  therefore  un- 
just. Even  the  godly  and  the  pious  must  have  legit- 
imate recreation  ;  and  thou  knowest  the  object  is 
charitable." 

"  Indeed  !  I  should  be  much  surprised  if  my  young 
cub  ever  did  a  charitable  thing  in  his  life.'' 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  said  the  Quaker.  "  Thou  shouldst  not 
object.  Is  it  not  one  of  the  tenets  of  thy  own  Church 
—  the  end  justifies  the  means  ?  And  what  can  be  more 
laudable  than  to  wean  away  young  baby  Papists  from 
their  darkness  and  superstition  and  bring  them  into  the 
sunlight  of  the  Gospel  freedom  ?  Good-night,  dear 
friend  !  " 

And  the  kindly  sarcastic  Quaker  went  his  way.  Next 
morning  the  microbe  patients  had  a  little  rest.  There 
was  a  scene,  a  violent  scene,  in  the  Doctor's  study,  in 
which,  for  once,  the  Doctor's  honest  anger  overwhelmed 
and  subdued  the  keen  sarcasm  of  his  son,  whilst  Barbara 
and  her  mother,  with  white  faces,  were  trembling  in  the 
drawing-room.  That  evening  the  mail  boat  from  Kings- 
town had  on  its  deck  a  very  distinguished  passenger, 
with  a  good  deal  of  the  manner  and  airs  of  a  foreign 
prince.  And  then  Louis  Wilson  had  to  face  the  humili- 
ation and  misery  of  his  London  lodgings  during  the  long 
vacation,  when  all  the  world  was  abroad,  except  the  vul- 
gar. He  would  have  fretted  a  good  deal  but  for  'two 
resources  —  the  care  of  his  face  and  figure,  and  a  cer- 
tain tiny  flask  which  he  carried  with  him  everywhere, 
and  a  few  drops  of  whose  magic  elixir  wafted  him  to  a 
Mahometan  paradise. 


I 


CHAPTER   XI 

CIRCE 

"I'll  insist  on  cook  taking  an  action  for  libel  against 
that  fellow,"  said  Dr.  Wilson,  the  morning  after  the 
great  dinner.  "  Why,  he  touched  nothing  but  a  bis- 
cuit and  an  apple.  Did  he  think  we  were  going  to 
poison  him  ?  " 

No !  Not  exactly.  But  the  "  great  man,"  besides 
being  extremely  and  habitually  abstemious,  as  all  great 
thinkers  ouo-ht  to  be,  had  really  some  uncharitable  sus- 
picions  about  the  cookery  of  tlie  outer  barbarians.  He 
stirred  the  soup  as  carefully  as  if  he  had  expected  every 
moment  to  turn  up  a  Ijaby's  finger,  for  he  had  lieard 
that  a  great  archbishop  had  once  had  that  delicacy 
offered  him  by  a  Maori  chief  ;  and  really,  you  don't 
know,  you  know!  And  he  passed  by  dish  after  dish 
as  if  he  were  playing  ''Nap"  and  held  a  decidedly  bad 
hand.  Ikit  withal,  he  was  very  nice  and  brilliant ;  and, 
though  i)ang  after  pang  of  mwrtltication  and  shame  shot 
through  the  anxious  breast  of  the  hostess,  and  she  feared 
that  it  was  all  a  fiasco,  after  her  days  of  work  and  nights 
of  worry,  nevertheless  the  afterthou<2-ht  :    "But  he  is  an 

Englishman,  and  near  cousin  to  the   Duke  of  B "" 

acted  as  a  soothing  and  mollifying  unguent  on  hurt 
and  bruised  feelings.  Then,  too,  the  (piick  sword-play 
of  words  between  the  "great  preacher"  and  ]Mrs.  Wen- 
liam —  !I!  What,  you  ask,  with  a  line  full  of  notes  of 
exclamations,  do  you  mean  to  say  Mrs.  Weidiam  — 
Circe!  —  was  there?  Yes,  indeed,  and  veiy  much  in 
evidence.  There  had  been  an  angry  intermarital  de- 
bate as  to  the  propriety  of  asking  her,  on  that  same 
K  ^     129 


130  LUKE  DELMEGE 

night  when  Louis  was  peremptorily  ordered  from  his 
father's  house  ;  but  the  name  had  already  been  inserted 
on  Mrs.  Wilson's  list,  and  how  could  they  think  of 
offending  one  of  the  greatest  potentates  at  the  Castle? 
The  Doctor  bit  his  lip.  It  wasn't  a  case  for  explana- 
tions. And  he  was  obliged  to  admit  that  Mrs.  Wenham 
was  charming.  With  the  splendid  individualism  of  her 
race,  she  came  to  the  banquet  in  a  simple  dress.  Whilst 
some  of  the  other  guests  had  as  many  rings  on  each  fin- 
ger as  the  poles  of  a  curtain,  she  had  but  one.  But  in 
a  moment  she  coolly  monopolized  the  conversation,  or 
rather  dualized  it  with  her  distinguished  fellow-coun- 
tryman. The  imperial  and  dominant  race  assumed  pro- 
prietorship here,  as  in  all  other  departments.  The 
Scythians  were  silent. 

It  is  quite  true,  in  the  beginning,  Circe  gave  a  little 
start  of  surprise  on  beholding  so  many  representatives 
of  the  Church  Militant  around  her.  But  this  quickly 
subsided.  After  all  —  that  is,  after  she  had,  by  a  vig- 
orous process  of  reasoning,  conquered  that  instinctive 
and  reverential  dread  of  the  priesthood  which  is  com- 
mon to  Mrs.  Wenliam  and  the  world,  and  argued,  rather 
vainly,  that  they  were  no  more  than  those  Ritualistic 
clergymen  whom  she  had  met  so  often,  and  so  often 
despised,  she  concluded  that  they  were,  after  all,  only 
humans,  and,  as  such,  legitimate  and  easy  prey.  And, 
to  save  time,  she  thought  she  would  conquer  the  gen- 
eralissimo, and  all  the  subalterns  would  then  capitulate. 

"  You  find  the  country  interesting  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  feeling  his  way.  "  So  far,  I  am, 
indeed,  highly  interested." 

"  Your  first  visit  ?  " 

"  My  first  visit,"  he  replied,  "  and  one  to  which  I  have 
eagerly  looked  forward." 

"•  I  hope,  then,  you  will  turn  the  pleasure  into  a  study. 
You  will  find  a  good  many  things  to  interest  you." 

"  I  have  found  a  great  many  interesting  things ;  and 
even  a  larger  number  of  interesting  persons  so  far,"  he 
said,  with  a  bow  and  smile. 


CIRCE  131 

"If  you  had  had  the  good  fortune  and  the  better 
taste  of  being  at  the  Horse  Show  these  last  days,  you'd 
have  seen  still  more  interesting  studies.  There  was  an 
immense  number  of  clergymen  there  —  more,  indeed, 
than  I  have  ever  seen  at  hippodromes  elsewhere.  I 
should  say  it  was  a  curious  ethnological  study  —  that 
almost  universal  taste  of  Irishmen  for  horseflesh." 

'*  You  speak  as  if  you  had  not  the  honour  of  being  an 
Irishwoman,"  said  the  great  one. 

"  I  am  English  —  or  rather  Scoto-English,"  said 
Circe. 

"  It  is  quite  a  disappointment,"  said  the  great  one  ; 
but  they  shook  hands  metaphorically  across  the  table, 
as  Stanley  and  Livingstone,  when  they  stepped  out 
of  the  shade  of  the  palms  and  bamboos,  and  recognized 
the  pith  helmets  and  revolvers.  It  was  the  only  trace 
and  visible  sisrn  of  civilization  that  had  been  left 
them. 

"  That  passion  for  horses  and  dogs  has  been  always  a 
characteristic  of  our  people,"  said  a  Monsignor.  "  We 
must  have  been  a  nomadic  race  at  one  time." 

"  I  have  been  reading  somewhat  like  it  in  one  of 
Matthew  Arnold's  poems,"  said  a  lady.  "  I  think  it 
was  '  Sohrab  and  Rustum.'  " 

"  Is  he  not  the  author  of  the  '  Strayed  Reveller '  ?  " 
said  Dr.  Wilson  directly  to  Mrs.  Wenham. 

She  looked  at  her  interrogator  blankly  for  a  moment, 
then  coloured  a  little,  then  frowned,  then  answered  :  — 

"I  never  read  modern  poetry."  It  was  a  bad  hit, 
but  she  had  passed  through  many  campaigns. 

"  I>y  the  way,  Mrs.  Wilson,"  she  said  blandly,  "I 
understood  that  your  boy  was  in  Dublin.  I  did  hear 
some  ladies  enthuse  rather  too  markedly  about  him  a 
few  days  hence.  But  how  can  the  boy  help  being 
so  handsome  ?  " 

"  Jezebel  !  "  said  the  Doctor,  between  his  teeth. 

"  And  it  is  quite  a  series  of  conquests,"  said  the 
woman  of  the  world,  turning  to  Rar])ara  :  "you,  little 
witch,  mesmerized  that  young  fool,  Kendal,  at  the  Den- 


132  LUKE  DELMEGE 

ison's  the  other  day.  By  the  way,  Doctor,  look  out  for 
the  list  of  Jubilee  honours.  Great  complaints  that  the 
medical  profession  has  never  yet  been  sufficiently  rep- 
resented or  acknowledged  there." 

"  Wer  kami  die  Weibercheti  dressiren,^''  said  Father 
Elton,  breaking  in  upon  the  conversation  from  a  quiet 
chat  he  had  been  carrying  on  with  the  younger  of  the 
two  Monsignori.  He  did  not  understand  the  sword- 
play  between  the  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Wenham;  but  he 
saw  that  there  was  some  veiled  antagonism  there,  and 
it  interested  him. 

"  You  are  well  read  in  ancient  legend  and  poetry  ?  " 
he  said,  turning  towards  Mrs.  Wenham. 

"  Not  quite  as  well  read  as  you  savmifs^""  she  said, 
bridling  under  the  interrogation  ;  "  but  quite  well 
enough  acquainted  with  them  to  know  that  they  used 
up  all  human  thought,  and  that  all  the  pallid  and  sickly 
growths  of  modern  times  are  ideas  transplanted  into 
uncongenial  climates  and  soils." 

"  There,  now.  Dr.  Calthrop,"  said  Father  Elton, 
"  there's  what  your  clever  countrywomen  think  of  all 
your  miraculous  discoveries  in  science  —  pallid  and 
sickly  transplantings." 

"  I  didn't  include  science,"  said  Mrs.  Wenham  ;  "  but 
as  ^ou  have  said  it,  I  adhere  to  it,"  which  was  generous 
of  Mrs.  Wenham,  and  seemed  to  imply  a  new  interest 
in  this  Roman  priest. 

"  I  would  give  a  good  deal  to  be  assured  of  that," 
said  Calthrop  with  slow  emphasis,  for  he  was  a  heavy 
man  ;  "  I  assure  you  I  am  quite  tired  of  the  deification 
of  my  masters,  and  I  have  long  suspected  that  they 
have  but  feet  of  clay." 

"  It  is  only  a  simple  and  familiar  fact  in  all  human 
history.  I  cannot  speak  much  for  your  department. 
Doctor,  for  I  am  extremely  sorry  to  say  I  do  not  know 
what  it  is,  but  there  is  one  general  and  unmistakable 
fact  or  principle  in  nature  —  flux  and  reflux ;  and  there 
must  be,  as  George  Eliot  puts  it,  an  equivalent  systole 
and  diastole  in  all  human  inquiry." 


CIRCE  133 

"Carlyle  is  the  author  of  that  expression,  I  think,*' 
said  Father  Elton. 

"No !  George  Eliot,"  said  Mrs.  Wenham,  looking 
steadily  at  him.  "  I  won't  permit  my  favourite  to  he 
rohbed  by  a  Scotch  parrot,  that  screams  in  broken 
German." 

"  Oh  !  oh  ! "  said  Father  Elton,  "  and  you  said  you 
were  half  Scotch.  Is  there  a  general  propensity  among 
the  Celts  to  turn  the  spit  ?  " 

"  Your  remark,  Mrs.  Wenham,"  said  Dr.  Calthrop, 
after  a  good  deal  of  thought,  "has  impressed  me.  I 
shall  look  up  the  ancients.  And  you  say  there's  noth- 
ing new  under  the  sun  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Wenham  ;  "  even  human  na- 
ture is  unchanged.  Even  your  Christianity,"  she  said, 
looking  calmly  around  on  all  the  clerics,  from  her  great 
fellow-countryman  down  to  the  Canon,  and  up  again  to 
Father  Elton,  "  is  but  a  repetition  of  the  ancient  philoso- 
phies, Greek,  Egyptian,  and  Hindoo." 

"  Except  that  ?  "  said  Father  Elton,  insinuatingly. 

"I  except  nothing,"  she  said,  fixing  her  glowing  eyes 
upon  him, 

"Except  that?"  Father  Elton  repeated,  smiling. 

"  Except  that  the  ancient  philosophies  made  their 
professors  humble  ;  and  — "  she  stopped,  fearing  to 
proceed. 

"  And  that  Christianity  is  the  culmination  and  per- 
fection of  all.  Dear  me,  think  of  a  nineteenth-century 
lady  actually  quoting  St.  Augustine  !  " 

"  Oh  !  the  days  of  miracles  are  not  yet  departed,"  she 
laughed. 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Father  Elton,  drawing  himself  to- 
gether. "  I  remember,"  he  continued,  "  a  rather  curi- 
ous incident  that  occurred  to  myself  only  a  few  months 
ago.  You've  all  heard  of  Knock,  of  course.  Well,  I 
was  really  anxious  to  see  for  myself  all  that  could  be 
authenticated  about  these  marvellous  apparitions.  So 
I  went  down,  put  up  for  a  few  days  in  an  imin-ovised 
hotel,  and  .looked  around.     I  saw  nothing  but  the  mir- 


134  LUKE  DELMEGE 

acle  of  the  people's  faith  and  piety,  and  the  miracle  oi 
suffering  ever  patiently  borne.  We  are  the  most  in- 
credulous of  mortals,  except  when  facts  swim  into  the 
sunlit  domain  of  Faith.  Well,  one  evening  at  dinner,  I 
sat  near  a  young  gentleman  from  Dublin,  who  also  had 
been  prosecuting  inquiries.  He  asked  me  bluntly  what 
I  thought  —  that  is,  what  the  Church  thought  about 
miracles.  1  explained  the  doctrine  as  simply  as  I  could. 
When  I  had  finished,  he  said  in  a  simple  way  :  — 

"  ^  I  am  an  unbeliever.  I  was  brought  up  a  Protestant, 
but  I  have  lost  all  faith.  But  I  am  of  a  rather  curious 
turn  of  mind  ;  and  I  have  so  much  natural  religion  left 
that  I  am  interested  in  other  people's  beliefs.  This 
brought  me  here.  I  shall  test  every  case,  I  said,  and 
ascertain  where  delusion  ends  and  miracles  begin.  I 
know  the  ^remendous  power  exercised  by  the  mind  over 
the  body  and  how  nervous  maladies  can  be  cured  by 
mere  mental  concentration.  But  let  me  see  one  clear 
case  of  consumption  or  hip  disease  or  cancer  healed,  and 
I  shall  think  it  necessary  to  retrace  my  steps  and  re- 
consider my  position.  Now  just  watch  this  !  A  few 
evenings  ago,  just  at  the  dusk,  I  went  up  to  the  church 
accompanied  by  my  mother  and  sister.  We  stood  oppo- 
site the  gable  where  the  figures  were  supposed  to  have 
appeared.  There  was  an  immense  crowd,  staring  with 
dilated  eyes  to  see  what  Avas  about  to  come  out  from 
the  invisible  silences.  Probably  I  was  the  only  cool  and 
exacting  and  incredulous  spirit  there.  My  mother  and 
sister  were  Protestants,  but  sympathetic.  I  stood  be- 
tween them,  leaning  one  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  each. 
The  Litanies  —  is  that  what  you  call  them? — -com- 
menced. I  had  no  sympathy  with  all  those  metaphori- 
cal expressions:  "Ark  of  the  Covenant,"  "  Morning  Star," 
"  Tower  of  David  ";  but  I  admitted  they  were  beautiful. 
The  innumerable  candles  were  lighting ;  and  I  was 
looking  around,  coolly  scrutinizing  the  faces  of  the  be- 
lievers, when  to  my  utter  amazement  I  saw  the  statue 
of  the  Virgin  slowly  expand  to  life-size  ;  I  saw  the  flesh- 
colour  come  into  the  cheeks  and  neck  ;  I  saw  the  eyes 


CIRCE  135 

open  widely  and  look  down  with  infinite  pity  at  me.  I 
was  entranced,  fascinated,  mesmerized.  I  pressed  my 
hands  heavily  on  the  shoulders  of  my  mother  and  sister, 
and  cried  in  a  passionate  whisper  :  Look  !  look  !  It 
was  not  a  momentary  phasis  ;  it  lasted  all  through  to 
the  end  of  the  Litany  ;  and  there  I  stared  and  stared 
at  the  phenomenon  ;  and  all  the  time  the  eyes  of  the 
Virgin  were  fixed  on  me  with  that  peculiar  expression 
of  sadness.  "Don't  you  see  it?"  I  cried  passionately  to 
my  friends.  "  See  what  ?  "  they  exclaimed.  "  Why,  the 
apparition!  Look!  look!  before  it  disappears  !  "  "You 
are  bewitched  !  "  my  sister  cried  ;  "there  is  absolutely 
nothing  but  the  statue  and  the  lights!  "  I  said  no  more, 
but  continued  to  gaze.  Once  and  again  I  shut  my  eyes 
and  then  rubbed  them  vigorously.  But  there  was  the 
apparition  unchanged,  until  at  the  last  strophe  of  the 
Litanies  a  mist  seemed  to  swim  before  it,  and  then 
slowly  the  figure  dwindled  down  to  the  size  of  the 
statue,  the  flesh-tints  disappeared,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments I  saw  nothing  but  the  clay  image  and  the  lifeless 
eyes.  But  were  I  put  on  oath  then,  I  should  have  said 
that  there  was  an  apparition.  The  hallucination  lasted 
only  a  little  while.  When  I  had  got  back  to  my  hotel 
I  was  convinced  it  was  an  optical  delusion.  And  so  it 
is  with  all  your  miracles —  the  action  of  a  disordered 
stomach  upon  the  optic  nerve.' 

"  '  And  your  mother  and  sister  ?  '  I  said. 

"  '  They  were  more  impressionable,'  he  replied.  '  But 
it  is  all  evaporated  in  the  swing  and  swirl  of  life.' 

"  I  had  quite  forgotten  the  incident,"  continued 
Father  Elton,  "and  even  the  name,  until  it  all  came 
back  as  you  were  speaking,  Mrs.  Wenhani.  1  think, — 
but  I  am  not  quite  positive,  —  that  the  gentleman's 
name  was  Menteith." 

All  throuQ-h  the  little  narrative  iNIrs.  Wenham's  larcre 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  speaker,  wondering,  speculating, 
angry,  fi-ightened.  When  Father  Elton  had  finishctl, 
she  looked  down  modestly  at  her  folded  hands,  and  said 
meekly  :  — 


136  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  That  is  also  my  name.  And  your  acquaintance  was 
my  brother.     I  remember  the  circumstance  well." 

"  Oh  !  indeed,"  said  f'ather  Elton,  "  how  curiously  I 
have  stumbled  on  such  an  interesting  circumstance. 
And  now,  Mrs.  Wenham,  did  the  experience  of  your 
excellent  brother  really  impress  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Wenham  looked  as  innocent  as  a  Child  of  Mary 
on  the  day  of  her  profession. 

"  I  have  never  failed  to  say  the  Rosary  of  the  Virgin 
every  day  since  then,"  she  said. 

Father  Elton  looked  long  and  steadily  at  her.  She 
calmly  returned  the  gaze.  Then  Father  Elton  turned 
aside  to  the  nearest  Monsignor  ;  and  he  must  have  heard 
some  excellent  stories  during  the  next  twenty  minutes, 
for  he  laughed  and  laughed  until  the  tears  ran  from  his 
eyes. 

There  was  a  silence  of  embarrassment  for  the  next 
few  minutes,  broken  onl}^  by  a  gallant  attempt  on  the 
part  of  the  Canon  to  collect  the  scattered  forces. 

"  Might  I  ask  —  ha  — "  he  said,  addressing  the 
preacher,  '■'•  do  you  —  ha  —  use  the  same  heraldic  crest 
and  motto  as  the  Duke  of ?  " 

"  No  ! "  came  uncompromisingly  from  the  great 
preacher. 

"  How  very  interesting  !  "  said  the  Canon. 

"  We  have  no  time  to  think  of  such  things  in  Eng- 
land," said  the  preacher. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  the  Canon.  "  I  thought  you  had 
no  responsibilities  —  ha  —  except  an  occasional  sermon." 

"  The  sermon  is  only  a  recreation,  particularly  wlien 
I  have  had  to  preach  to  such  an  intelligent  audience 
and  to  meet  such  interesting  company  as  I  have  been 
favoured  with  this  evening,"  said  the  preacher. 

"  Then  we  — ha  —  hope  to  have  the  honour  of  a  repe- 
tition of  your  visit  ?  "  said  the  Canon. 

The  preacher  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

As  the  ladies  filed  out,  Father  Elton  held  the  door 
open.     Circe  was  last. 

"  It  was  not  a  matter  to  be  spoken  of  at  a  public  dinner 


CIRCE  137 

table,"  she  whispered  ;  "  but  you  must  really  take  me 
up,  and  bring  a  poor  lost  sheep  into  the  true  fold." 

"  With  great  pleasure,"  he  replied. 

Ah,  Cii'ce  !  Circe  !  A  great  enchantress  you  may  be 
with  budding  ApoUos  and  young  Adonises,  who  have 
not  yet  put  on  the  calm  of  the  eternal  gods  ;  but  "  your 
sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies "  will  never  turn  these 
steeled  and  passionless  priests  into  porkers,  Circe  ! 

She  tried  her  wiles  on  more  yielding  material,  and  as- 
certained in  twenty  minutes  from  Barbara,  (1)  that  her 
father  was  really  anxious  for  a  title  ;  (2)  that  her 
brother  had  left  Dublin  rather  unexpectedly,  why  and 
wherefore  Barbara  did  not  know ;  (3)  that  Barbara  was 
thoroughly  ashamed  of  this  evening  dress  she  was  wear- 
ing, and  had  striven  successfully  to  cover  it  with  all 
kinds  of  webs  and  woofs  of  lace  ;  (4)  that  she  had  a 
great  dread  of  Father  Elton,  who  was  so  clever,  and  a 
great  reverence  for  the  purple,  and  a  great  love  for  cer- 
tain uncouth,  barefooted  meditcvalists  down  there  in  a 
street  that  was  generally  festooned  with  all  manner  of 
human  integuments,  and  that  was  onl}-  held  together  by 
the  Caryatides,  who,  with  arms  akimbo,  sustained  from 
morning  to  night  its  creaking  and  rotten  postels  and 
architraves  ;  (5)  that  Barbara's  little  soul  had  no  other 
ambition  or  craving  for  pleasure  except  a  quiet  hour 
after  a  hard  day's  work,  down  there  in  the  dimly  lighted 
church,  where  the  great  lamp  swung  to  and  fro,  and 
there  was  silence,  but  for  the  rattle  of  old  Norry's 
beads. 

And  the  Avoman  of  the  world,  calling  up  her  own 
history,  and  the  many  secret  histories  that  were  locked 
up  and  sealed  in  the  cabinets  of  memory,  looked  this 
young  girl  all  over,  and  looked  through  her  eyes  and 
the  lines  of  her  mouth,  and  satisfied  herself  that  there 
were  no  secret  corridors  and  avenues  there.  Then  the 
woman  of  the  world,  wondering  at  this  curiosity,  put  a 
few  other  leading  questions,  which  glanced  harmlessly 
off  the  armour  of  a  pure  ingenuous  soul.  Then  the 
woman  of  the  world  fell  into  a  deep  reverie,  and  woke 


138  LUKE  DELMEGE 

up  to  hear  herself  whispering :  "  The  days  of  miracles 
are  not  passed.     It  is  a  child,  and  a  miracle." 

Later  on,  when  the  gentlemen  had  entered  the  draw- 
ing-room, it  was  noticed  that  Mrs.  Wenham  was  rather 
silent  and  thoughtful. 

"  A  clever  woman,  playing  a  clever  part  !  "  thought 
Father  Elton. 

"  A  little  bored  by  the  Scythians,"  thought  the 
preacher,  "  as,  indeed,  I  confess  myself  to  be." 

"  Jezebel  is  repenting,"  said  Dr.  Wilson.  "  Has  she 
a  foreshadowing  of  the  dogs  ?  " 

Not  at  all,  for  the  prophets  were  all  dead  in  Israel. 
She  took  an  early  leave.  Barbara  would  accompany 
her  to  her  carriage.  Dr.  Wilson  said  a  frigid  good- 
night.     Barbara  whispered :  — 

"  You  may  be  able  to  do  something  for  papa,  Mrs. 
Wenham." 

"  You  may  be  assured  I  will,  for  your  sweet  sake," 
said  Mrs.  Wenham. 

"  And  —  and  —  if  ever  —  that  is,  you  may  meet  Louis 
in  London,  will  you  —  won't  you  —  oh  !  dear  Mrs. 
Wenham!—" 

"  There,  go  in  from  the  night-air,  you  little  saint, 
decolletee,"  said  the  woman  of  the  world,  as  she  said 
"  good-bye  !  " 

"  There  are  a  few  innocents  still  left  in  the  world," 
she  said  to  the  mute  who  accompanied  her.  "  'Tis  a 
pity  ;  for  Rachel  will  yet  have  to  shed  tears.  And 
there  should  be  no  tears  !  none  !  "  she  cried  almost 
viciously.  "  But  steeled  nerves  and  stony  hearts  and 
minds  that  won't  turn  back  on  the  inevitable.  What 
dreadful  fate  is  before  that  child  ?  For  she  cannot  be 
spared.  The  soldiers  of  Herod  are  abroad,  and  the  air 
is  full  of  the  sound  of  weeping.  I  should  like  to  see 
her  God,  though.  Let  me  see  —  ten — 'tis  early,  is  it 
not  ?  " 

She  pulled  the  cord  and  gave  a  direction  to  her 
coachman.  He  said  nothing,  but  turned  the  horses' 
heads,  though  he  went  near  falling  off  his  perch. 


CIRCE  139 

Then  the  woman  of  the  world  found  herself  in  the 
dark  porch  of  a  church,  whither  she  had  picked  her 
way,  but  with  dreadful  misgivings  as  to  the  condition 
of  iier  silks  and  shoes.  Dark  figures  flitted  by  her  in 
the  dim  light,  dipped  their  hands  somewhere,  muttered 
their  charms,  and  disappeared.  She  entered,  but  saw 
nothing  but  a  few  yellow  jets  that  darkened  the  gloom. 
She  moved  up  the  centre  aisle,  and  saw  the  red  lamp 
swinging.  She  watched  it  eagerly.  It  had  some  curi- 
ous fascination  al)oat  it.  She  had  seen  similar  lamps 
burning  before  eikons  in  Russia  once,  when  her  husband 
was  military  attache  to  the  Court  ;  and  she  had  often 
seen  the  same  lamps  at  the  corners  of  the  Italian  streets 
before  images  of  the  JNIadonna.  But  they  weren't  like 
this  altogether.  What  was  it  ?  Then  she  discerned 
slowly  that  she  was  not  alone,  but  that  the  church  was 
crowded.  For  faces  paled  from  out  the  darkness,  and 
whispers  and  a  cough  broke  on  her  startled  senses. 
She  saw  long  rows  of  men  and  women,  mute  as  statues 
in  the  halls  of  the  dead.  What  were  they  doing  ?  And 
that  red  lamp  ?  She  was  seized  with  a  sudden  panic 
and  fled. 

"•  May  the  sweet  Mother  of  God  protect  you,  and  may 
God  give  you  a  happy  death  and  a  favourable  judgment," 
said  a  voice  from  the  darkness  of  the  porch. 

*'  It  was  a  plunge  in  the  Inferno,'"  slie  said.  "  What 
madness  came  over  me  ?  " 

Death  —  Judgment!    Death  —  Judgment!    Death  — 

Judgment  I      Death Judgment!      So  sang  the  merry 

wheels,  as  'Mow  on  the  sands,  loud  on  the  stones  "  her 
carriage  whirled  away. 


CHAPTER   XII 

CRITICAL   AND   EXPOSITORY 

"YoD"  really  surprise  me,  Father  Elton,"  said  Dr. 
Calthrop,  when  the  gentlemen  had  sat  down  with  an 
air  of  unspeakable  freedom  and  lighted  their  cigars, 
"  and  you  interest  me,  because  I  really  must  admit  that 
we  are  disposed  sometimes  to  suffer  from  swelled  heads 
in  our  generation.  But  now,"  he  said  coaxingly,  "•  do 
you  not  really  dread  us  ?  We  have  pushed  you  back 
behind  the  ramparts,  and  are  just  forming  en  echelon 
for  the  last  attack." 

"  To  vary  the  simile,"  said  Father  Elton,  smiling, 
"  tell  me,  did  you,  a  city  man,  ever  chance  to  see  the 
rooks  following  the  sower  in  a  ploughed  field  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  Well,  you  know,  we  are  the  rooks.  Every  French 
gamin  is  taught  to  say  :  Quoi !  quoi  !  after  us  in  the 
streets.  But,  as  you  are  well  aware,  the  careful  and 
thrifty  rooks  follow  the  track  of  the  sower  to  pick  up 
the  seeds  he  has  dropped,  and  assimilate  them.  They 
are  not  afraid  of  the  sower.  And  they  laugh,  actually 
laugh,  at  the  hat  on  the  pole  and  the  streaming  rags, 
which  are  supposed  to  frighten  them." 

"■  I  cannot  well  follow  you,"  said  the  slow  Doctor. 

"  Well,  my  dear  sir,"  said  Father  Elton,  "  we  are  the 
rooks.  You  are  the  sowers.  Every  fact  you  drop 
from  the  bag  of  science,  we  assimilate  it  for  our  own 
use.  You  may  label  it  '  Poison  '  if  you  like.  We 
laugh  and  pick  it  up.  Your  scarecrow  —  the  end  and 
final  judgment  on  all  religion  and  revelation,  —  we  look 
at  it  boldly,  cackle  at  it  contemptuously,  and  fly  away." 

"  I    see,"    said   the  Doctor,  laughing.       "  But   some 

140 


I 


CRITICAL   AND    EXPOSITORY  141 

day  the  sower  will  get  mad  and  string  up  one  or  two 
of  you." 

''  That  would  be  unscientific,"  said  the  priest.  "  And, 
above  all  other  things,  the  rooks  have  faith  in  the 
philosophy  and  imperturbability  of  the  seed-sower.  To 
string  up  one  or  two  of  us  would  be  a  retrograde  pro- 
ceeding ;  and  science  is  essentially  progressive." 

"  But  the  whole  tone  of  you  gentlemen  in  matters 
of  controversy  appears  to  me  to  be  distinctly  apologetic. 
There  is  a  rubbing  of  the  hands  and  an  action  of  dep- 
recation observable  in  all  your  literature  that  seems 
to  say  :  '  For  God's  sake,  don't  anniliilate  us  alto- 
gether ! '" 

"  I  cannot  speak  of  Irish  controversies,"  said  the 
preacher,  breaking  in  suddenly,  "  but  for  us  in  England 
let  me  say  tliat  we  hold  our  heads  as  high  as  any  phi- 
losophers or  unbelievers.  Perhaps,  Doctor,  you  mis- 
take courtesy  for  want  of  courage." 

"  Well,  no,"  said  the  Doctor,  in  his  slow,  heavy  way  ; 
"  but  I  confess  you  solicit  aggressiveness  on  our  part 
by  your  delightful  humility,  and  yonr  rather  pronounced 
and  deferential  obsequiousness  to  men  of  science.  Things 
weren't  so,  you  know  ;  and  your  new  attitude  makes  us 
suspicious." 

"  We  are  'umble,  very  'umble.  Doctor,"  said  Father 
Elton,  who  now  put  on  his  war-paint  over  his  drawing- 
room  manner.  "■  You  are  quite  right.  We  are  most 
literal  in  our  Christianity.  We  turn  the  one  cheek 
when  the  other  is  smitten  ;  and  when  3'ou  take  our 
coats,  we  flincr  our  cloaks  after  vou.  We  are  dreadfuHv 
deferential  and  apologetic.  In  fact,  the  science  ot 
apologetics  is  our  only  science  at  present.  Amongst 
our  learned  brethren,  a  new  discovery  in  science,  or  a 
pretended  one,  is  hailed  as  if  a  new  star  had  swum  into 
our  luu'izon  ;  and  when  you  discover  a  new  germ,  or 
find  out  somethinc:  new  about  cells,  thev  take  off  their 
hats  and  genuflect,  and  say  :    Venite,  adoremus  !  " 

"  Now,  now.  Father  Elton,  really  now,  this  is  an 
exaggeration,"  said  the  })reacher. 


142  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"If  I  —  ha  —  understand  the  reverend  gentleman 
aright,"  said  the  Canon,  grandly,  "  he  —  ha  —  means  an 
act  of  worship  to  the  Creator,  for  the  —  ha  —  unex- 
pected development  in  the  —  ha  —  what-you-call-'ems." 

"  Canon,"  said  Father  Elton,  bitterly,  "  I  mean  noth- 
ing of  tlie  kind.  I  mean  that  a  certain  class  of  our 
co-religionists  are  so  infatuated  by  their  enthusiasm, 
or  paralyzed  by  their  fear,  that  they  worship  every  new 
development  of  physical  science  ;  and  that,  in  the  wor- 
ship of  the  animalcula,  they  forget  what  is  due  to  the 
Creator  and  His  authority  on  earth,  instead  of  saying: 
'  Go  on,  go  on,  ye  delvers  in  darkness.  Every  jet  of 
flame  you  cast  on  the  secrets  of  Nature  lights  a  lamp 
for  us  before  the  shrine  of  the  Eternal.'  And  the  whole 
thing  is  ludicrous.  As  that  excellent  lady  said,  a  few 
minutes  ago,  it  is  but  the  systole  and  diastole  in  all 
human  inquiry.  The  ghost  of  Democritus  has  appeared 
in  the  nineteenth  century ;  and  he  rattles  his  chains, 
like  every  decent  ghost — 'atoms,'  'germs,'  'cells,'  we 
hear  it  all  da  capo,  only  Weismann  differs  from  Eimer, 
and  Siciliani  differs  from  Binet.  And  now,  at  last, 
whilst  they  have  been  delving  away  in  the  subterranean 
vaults  of  Nature,  the  very  soul  of  Nature  has  flown  up- 
wards, and  escaped  the  vision  of  the  dwellers  in  dark- 
ness. But  at  the  mouth  of  the  pit,  lo,  the  watchers 
behold  it,  and  shout  down  to  the  blackened  pitmen, 
with  their  tallow  candles  and  smoking  lamps  :  '  Come 
up  !  come  up  !  there  are  colossal  potentialities  in  the 
psychic  capacities  of  matter.  It  is  easier  to  explain 
the  soul  than  the  phenomena  of  inheritance,  and  the 
psychic  capacities  are  developing  themselves.  Come 
up,  come  up  quickly,  or  you  may  stumble  upon  God  !  ' " 

"  I  admit  there's  a  defect  somewhere,"  said  Dr. 
Calthrop. 

"  There  is,"  said  Father  Elton,  who  intended  to 
silence  the  enemy's  guns  forever,  "  there  is.  And  that 
is,  you  men  of  science  have  been  a  little  premature  in 
discounting  the  science  of  metaphysics.  We  Catholics 
pursue  the  two    together.     You   have   abandoned   the 


CRITICAL   AND    EXPOSITORY  143 

mind-science  forever.  Hence,  you  see  Nature  through 
a  telescope  ;  we  through  a  binocular.  And  we  get  the 
better  view.  And  we  are  satisfied  not  to  see  too  far 
or  too  much.  '  I  am  all  that  has  been,  that  shall  be  ; 
and  none,  amongst  mortals,  has  hitherto  lifted  my  veil.' 
Or,  as  one  of  your  few  thoughtful  poets  has  put  it  :  — 

" '  Shall  any  gazer  see  with  mortal  eyes? 
Or  any  searcher  know  by  mortal  mind? 
Veil  after  veil  must  lift  —  but  there  must  be 
Veil  after  veil  behind.' 

The  star  —  the  cell  —  the  soul  —  these  be  impenetrable 
enigmas." 

"  Well,  of  course,  we  make  all  allowance  for  you 
Irishmen,"  said  the  preacher  ;  "  but  you  are  not  placed 
in  our  difficult  position,  and,  therefore,  you  cannot  un- 
derstand our  mode  of  action.  We  are  dealing  with  a 
powerful  and  prejudiced  antagonism,  which,  with  sin- 
gular disingenuousness  and  want  of  candour,  is  forever 
repeating  the  cat-calls  of  past  prejudices  against  us. 
You  know,  of  course,  that  tliere  is  a  congenital  belief 
in  the  Protestant  mind  that  we  are  opposed  to  the 
natural  sciences,  and  that  we  dread  them." 

"  Yes,  and  you  encourage  that  belief  by  your  artificial 
enthusiasm.  'You  do  protest  too  much,  gentlemen.' 
What  you  want  is  a  Christian  Pascal,  just  as  we  want 
another  Swift,  to  heap  scorn  upon  all  anti-Christian 
philosophy  in  every  shape  and  form." 

"  But  we  sliall  be  called  '  aggressive.'  " 

"And  why  not?  After  nineteen  centuries  of  a 
career,  marked  in  every  cycle  and  century  b}'  miracle, 
surely  our  time  has  come  to  hold  up  to  the  eyes  of  the 
thous^htful  the  raufijed  vesture  and  the  pasteboard  idols 
of  the  world.  ••  Tiiese  be  thy  gods,  (.)  Israel !  '  IJelieve 
me,  my  dear  Father,  that  our  want  of  aggression  and 
determination  is  the  main  cause  of  our  want  of  larger 
success.  Give  back  blow  for  blow,  and  scorn  for  scorn. 
Vinegar  cut  through  the  Alps  for  Hannibal  ;  milk  and 
honey  would  not  have  done  it." 


144  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  Tertiillian  was  not  canonized,"  said  the  preacher, 

"  No  ;  and  he  was  jnstly  refused  canonization.  But 
will  any  man  contend  that  Tertullian  did  not  do  more, 
by  his  fierce  invective,  to  undermine  the  strength  of 
Pagan  and  Imperial  Rome,  than  any  of  his  meeker 
brother-apologists  ?  " 

''  Well,  but  you  must  admit.  Father  Elton,  that  our 
Church  enjoys  far  larger  liberties  under  the  English 
flag  than  under  any  foreign  power,  even  though  nomi- 
nally Catholic." 

"Certainly.     But  what  then?" 

"  Well,  then,  it  behoves  us  to  be  patient  and  circum- 
spect." 

"  Yes.  Obey  the  higher  powers.  That  is  our  teach- 
ing. But  I  am  not  speaking  of  the  higher  powers.  I 
am  speaking  of  the  lower,  infernal  powers,  who,  through 
science,  literature,  and  a  vulgar  and  venal  press,  use 
every  oj^portunity  to  defame  us,  and  hold  us  and  our 
teachings  up  to  ridicule,  and  who  are  the  secret  con- 
spirators that  hold  the  strings  of  governments,  and 
move  their  puppets  at  their  will.  Look  at  your  litera- 
ture, how  defiled  it  is  with  anti-Catholic  scurrility  ! 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  Catholic  writer  who  held  up  an 
Anglican  parson  or  Nonconformist  minister  to  scorn  ? 
Never.  But  your  whole  literature  reeks  with  infamous 
calumnies  on  dur  priesthood.  Why,  half  your  novels 
deal  with  Jesuits  and  the  Inquisition.  And  your  '  seer 
and  prophet,'  when  he  is  not  shrieking  '  Oh  !  heavens,' 
or  '■All  de  mi,''  is  ridiculing  the  '  simulacrum '  of  a  Pope, 
or  screaming  about  an  imaginary  '  dirty,  muddy-minded, 
semi-felonious,  proselytizing  Irish  priest,'  who  is  sup- 
posed to  have  disturbed  the  by  no  means  normal  equa- 
nimity of  'his  goody.'  What  is  the  result?  Voters 
become  smitten  with  the  virus  and  madness  of  bigotry; 
then  statesmen  are  influenced,  and  Acts  of  Parliament 
passed,  and  the  whole  thing  is  liberty  and  progress. 
Why,  witness  all  Catholic  France  to-day,  passing  meekly 
under  the  yoke,  at  the  dictation  of  a  few  dirty  Jewish 
rags  !     But  the  pitiful  thing  is  that  we  sit  down  and 


CRITICAL   AND   EXPOSITORY  145 

tamely  submit  to  all  this.  If  we  want  a  clear  proof  of 
the  continuity  of  our  Church  with  that  of  the  Catacombs, 
it  is  found  in  our  serfdom.  The  Angel  of  the  Apoca- 
lypse may  mark  our  foreheads  with  the  mystical  sign 
of  Tau;  but,  by  Jove,  the  Angel  of  Destiny  has  branded 
the  Sigma  of  slavery  on  our  backs." 

''I  am  afraid,  Father  Elton,"  said  the  preacher,  "your 
desire  to  emphasize  your  contentions  has  led  into  the 
national  tendency  towards  exaggeration.  I  assure  you 
we  get  on  very  well  over  there  in  '  darkest  England,' 
and  that  we  are  not  so  sensible  of  persecution,  perhaps 
because  not  so  sensitive  about  trifles,  as  you  imagine. 
Besides,  our  people  are  really  not  so  much  influenced 
by  literature  as  you  seem  to  imagine.  It  would  sur- 
prise you  to  find  how  little  my  countrymen  care  about 
their  prophets.  They  think  more  of  their  purveyors 
and  their  bread  and  ale." 

"  We  had  but  one  '•  man  '  in  our  century,"  said  Father 
Elton,  pui\suing  his  own  train  of  thought,  "  and  that 
was  lie  who  armed  his  Irish  subjects  iu  New  York,  and 
then  told  its  mayor  that  the  first  contingent  of  savage 
bigots  that  made  its  appearance  in  the  city  would  find 
that  city  in  flames  !  " 

"•I  am  —  ha  —  afraid,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Canon, 
who  was  very  much  disturbed,  "  that  we  are  approaching 
—  ha  —  rather  questionable  and  —  ha  —  dangerous  sub- 
jects, that  may  —  ha  —  introduce  in  their  train  some — 
ha  — slight  acerljity  that  would  mar  tlie  harmony  of  this 
pleasant  meeting.  Suppose  we  adjourn  to  the  —  ha  — 
more  equable  and  —  ha  —  temperate  atmosphere  of  the 
drawinof-room." 

Father  Elton  and  the  preaclier  walked  out  together. 

"  The  good  Canon,"  said  tJie  latter,  "  did  not  quite 
seem  to  understand  his  uneomi)limentary  allusion.  He 
implies  that  we  have  been  indulging  a  little  freely." 

Father  Elton  laughed,  but  looked  anno3'ed. 

There  was  a  family  conclave  late  that  evening. 
"Why   don't   they    do   something    for    that    Father 


146  LUKE  DELMEGE 

Elton?"  said  Mrs.  Wilson.  "Why  don't  they  make 
him  a  Monsignor  or  something  ?  Why,  he's  not  even 
a  Doctor  of  Laws  !  " 

"  Why  do  they  make  boobies  of  baronets,  and  judges 
of  jugglers  ?  Why  are  they  always  putting  round  men 
into  square  holes,  and  vice  versa? ^'  said  her  husband. 

"  I  am  —  ha  —  more  convinced  than  ever  of  the  —  ha 

—  wisdom  of  the  Church,"  said  the  Canon,  "  in  not 
having  advanced  to  —  a  —  ha  —  position  of  respecta- 
bility and  honour  one  who  holds  such  extreme  views. 
That  clergyman  is  —  ha  —  positively  revolutionary,  and 

—  even  —  ha  —  anarchical  in  his  ideas." 

"  Are  there  many  like  him  in  Ireland  ?  "  asked  Dr. 
Calthrop. 

"  Most  happily,  no  !  "  said  the  Canon.  "  The  vast 
number  of  our  clergy  are  amiable,  industrious,  respect- 
able members  of  society  ;  strictly  observant  of  the  laws 
of  their  —  ha — Church;  and  obedient  and — ha  —  re- 
spectful to  constituted  forms  of  government." 

"  Because  if  you  had  a  few  thousand,  or  even  hun- 
dred, of  that  species  with  his  intelligence  and  vivacity, 
you  need  not  have  been  whining  for  your  Catholic  Uni- 
versity so  long,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"  I  can't  see  for  the  life  of  me  what  these  clergymen 
dabble  in  science  for  ?  It  is  bad  enough  to  have  '  priests 
in  politics,'  but  'priests  in  science,'  monopolizing  our 
every  department,  and  possibly  anticipating  our  discov- 
eries, would  be  intolerable,"  said  Dr.  Wilson.  "  That 
man,  now,  seems  to  have  been  reading  up  all  our  sci- 
entific authorities.  Did  he  quote  Shaler  and  Eimer, 
Calthrop  ?  " 

"  Ay,  and  seemed  to  know  them  well.  After  all,  it 
touches  their  own  department  ;  and  I  must  say  that  I 
brought  that  unpleasant  discussion  on  myself.  But  I 
confess  your  good  clergyman  is  to  me  a  greater  surprise 
than  anj^thing  I  have  seen  on  this  memorable  visit. 
How  little  we  know  of  each  other  !  " 

"  Mrs.  Wenham  thinks  very  highly  of  him,"  put  in 
Mrs.  Wilson,  diffidently.  "  I  lieard  her  say  to  Bar- 
bara :   '  That  is  a  man  to  hold  souls  in  leash.' " 


CRITICAL  AND   EXPOSITORY  147 

"  That's  women's  ways,"  said  her  husband.  "  They 
like  a  master.  They  are  ambitious  to  rule  ;  but  they 
love  being  ruled.  No  woman  can  be  an  autocrat.  She 
must  have  a  higher  power  to  worship." 

"  Did  you  say,  Bessie,"  asked  the  Canon,  "  that  that 

—  ha  —  excellent  clergyman  visits  at  the  —  ha — Vice- 
regal Lodge  and  lunches  at  the  Castle  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  doubt  about   it,  Canon,"  she  replied. 

"  He  is  even  a  favourite  with  Lady  C ,  who  consults 

him  on  many  points." 

"Then  I  presume  he  suppresses  —  ha  —  his  rather  ad- 
vanced and  —  hii  —  subversive  principles  ;  and  probably 
presents  the  teachings  of  the  Church  in  an  —  ha  —  at- 
tractive guise." 

"  Depend  upon  it,  he  does  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said 
Dr.  Calthrop  ;  "  he  is  not  a  man  to  water  down  his 
principles,  and  if  he  did,  he  would  lose  all  his  piquancy." 

"  But  the  recognized  authorities,  sir,  the  —  ha  —  rep- 
resentatives of  the  Queen,  hqw  can  they  listen  without 

—  ha  —  emphatic  protest  to  such  disloyal  principles?" 
asked  the  ('anon. 

"  Oh,  these  eccentricities  are  quite  tolerable,  and  even 
amusing,"  said  the  Doctor,  "  to  Englishmen.  It  is  only 
when  we  see  such  principles  reduced  to  practice  by 
silent  and  steady  organization  that  we  bring  down  the 
whip. 

"  Ijut  the  language,  sir  !  — "  said  the  Canon. 

"We  never  mind  talk,'"  said  the  Doctor;  "it  is  the 
silence  we  dread."  And  the  Canon  thenceforward  was 
dumb. 

"  There's  a  letter  from  Louis  by  the  evening  mail," 
said  Mrs.  Wilson,  addressing  her  husband. 

"A  mod(\st  request  for  twenty  pounds  ?  "  asked  the 
Doctor,  lifting  his  black  eyebrows. 

"  No,  indeed.  You  can  read  it.  There's  nothing  of 
that  kind  in  it."     And  the  tilial  letter  ran  thus  :  — 

"Dearest  Mother: — Arrived  here  quite  safely  on  the  11th 
and  looked  np  my  old  di,2[,Q,ings.  Things  were  pretty  rough  and 
disorganized,  as  1  was  not  expected  so  soon  by  the  housekeeper. 


148  LUKE  DELMEGE 

None  of  my  chums  has  returned,  and  London  is  yet  a  desert.  The 
natives  are  just  now  swarming  on  the  cool  hillsides  or  in  the  deep 
valleys  of  the  Alps,  or  leaning  over  the  gunwales  of  their  yachts 
in  the  Mediterranean,  or  fishing  in  the  Xorway  rivers.  But  there 
is  a  pretty  large  crowd  of  country  cousins  in  the  streets,  very  open 
as  to  their  mouths,  but  very  close  as  to  their  pockets.  They  move 
in  squads,  and  seem  to  be  in  a  condition  of  chronic  i^anic.  You 
can  imagine  how  dull  all  this  is  !  Nothing  to  do.  Hot  streets,  blaz- 
ing skies,  no  society.  Well,  a  little.  We  had  a  meeting  of  the 
pre-Raphaelites  on  Monday  evening,  in  which,  before  parting  for 
the  long  holidays,  several  arrangements  were  made.  I  am  booked 
for  a  lecture  on  '  Turner '  some  time  in  January.  We  had  also  a 
garden  party  up  the  river  at  Uskholme.  A  select  few  of  the  rab- 
ble of   artists,  poets,  musicians,  etc.,  met  at  the   house  of   Lady 

L ,  whom  you  already  know  as  a  patroness  of  the  arts.     She 

asked  me  to  come.  I  pleaded  headache,  sunstroke,  several  engage- 
ments. No  use.  I  had  to  go.  It  was  delightful.  Slightly  bar- 
baric, but  rather  novel  and  quite  fit  for  hlase  people.  But  these 
things  don't  suit  me.  I  am  working  hard.  I  have  got  permission 
from  the  Resident  Surgeon  to  attend  St.  Thomas's  every  day.  I 
go  through  every  ward  and  every  case  in  succession.  It  is  weary 
work.  But  I  have  an  axe  to  grind.  By  the  way,  tell  Barby  I  am 
not  neglecting  the  '  one  thing  necessary.'  I  was  at  Vespers  at  the 
Cathedral  on  Sunday  evening.  The  music  was  gorgeous ;  the  cere- 
monial superb.  But  the  sermon  !  I !  Alas  !  who  was  the  preacher, 
think  you?  Our  young  peasant  friend,  who  sang  that  rebel  song 
that  so  shocked  uncle.  It  was  awful.  Just  a  potpourri  of  medi- 
peval  absurdities  —  free-will,  grace,  pre-determination,  prescience. 
And  such  an  accent !  Great  heavens !  You  could  cut  it  with  a 
knife  and  hang  your  hat  on  the  splinters  thereof.  What  are  they 
doing  in  those  Irish  colleges?  I  have  heard  an  acquaintance  say 
that  a  young  priest  is  the  greatest  greenhorn  in  existence.  But 
our  Church  is  deeply  concerned  in  these  things.  No  Protestant 
could  take  away  with  him  anything  but  contempt  after  hearing 
this  scholastic  rhodomontade.  Far  different  was  another  experi- 
ence of  mine.  I  went  over  lately  to  hear  Dr.  Vaughan,  Master  of 
the  Temple,  preach.  Don't  be  alarmed,  dear  mother  !  You  know 
Catholics  can  go  where  they  like  here,  without  prohibition.  Such 
calm,  majestic,  well-reasoned,  well-delivered  language  I  had  never 
heard  before ;  and  such  self-reliance  without  affectation,  and  self- 
restraint  without  coldness. 

"  I  wish  I  were  a  theological  student,  and  could  sit  under  his 
chair." 

"  Ls  that  all  ?  "  said  Dr.  Wilson. 

"  That's  all,"  said  the  proud  mother,  "  except  a  few 
trifling  personal  remarks  at  the  end." 


CRITICAL   AND   EXPOSITORY  149 

"  The  young  cub  !  "  said  the  father. 
"I  think,"  said  the  Canon,  "that  that  is  —  ha  —  an 
admirable  letter.     It  manifests  distinctly  four  or  five 

—  ha  —  features  that  are  very  consoling.  It  is  clear 
that  our  dear  boy  is  moving  in  —  ha  —  excellent  soci- 
ety. That  distinguished  lady  who  —  ha  —  had  the 
goodness  to  invite  him  to  her  garden  party  must  have 
seen  something  more  than  usually  attractive  in  Louis. 
Then,  his  devotion  to — ha  —  study  —  clinical,  is  it  not, 
Doctor  ?  What  zeal  and  perseverance  it  needs  to  re- 
main whole  days  in  the  —  ha  —  dreadful  wards,  in  mo- 
mentary —  ha  —  danger  of  contracting  disease  !  Then, 
his  attention  to  his  —  ha  —  religious  duties.  Vespers 
are  not  —  ha  —  obligatory  in  our  Church,  Dr.  Calthrop  ; 
but  you  see  how  early  —  ha — impressions  and  careful 
Christian  training  mould  the — ha — entire  future  ca- 
reer of  our  bovs.  What  is  that,  Bessie  ?  The  music 
was  —  ha  —  " 

"  Gorgeous  ! "  said  Mrs.  Wilson,  consulting  the  letter. 

"I  am  sure  that  is  —  ha  —  excellent  criticism,"  con- 
tinued the  Canon.  "  And  then  his  witty,  indeed,  rather 
too  free  —  ha  —  remarks  on  preaching!  But,  then, 
young  men,  young  men  !  And  his  solicitude  for  the 
Church  —  the  appearance  she  —  ha  —  makes  before  the 
public  !     How  lamentable  that  they  will  not  turn  out 

—  ha  —  better  types  from  our  colleges  !     Mark  the  —  ha 

—  distinction  between  this  —  ha —  rude  young  Celt  and 
that  refined  and  polished  clergynum  —  named,  Bessie?" 

"  Dr.  Yaughan,  Master  of  the  Temple  !  "  said  INIrs. 
Wilson,  again  consulting  the  letter. 

"  Dr.  Vaughan,  Master  of  the  Temple,"  echoed  the 
Canon.  "And  how  does  Louis  —  ha  —  describe  this 
clergyman's  eloquence  ?  " 

"  Calm,  majestic,  well-reasoned,  well-delivered,"  said 
Mrs.  Wilson,  reading. 

'"  Calm,  majestic,  well-reasoned,  well-delivered,"  echoed 
the  Canon,  leaning  on  each  word  with  emphasis.  "  I 
should  say  tliat  such  a  —  ha  —  discourse  was  most  cred- 
itable and  —  ha  —  respectable." 


150  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  What  would  you  think  of  Louis  becoming  a  theo- 
logical student  ?  "  said  Dr.  Wilson. 

The  Canon  saw  the  sarcasm,  and  winced. 

"  I  should  say,  indeed,"  he  replied,  "  that  at  this  period 
of  his  career  it  would  be  —  ha  —  inadvisable  to  change. 
But  I  am  —  ha  —  quite  sure  that  whatever  profession 
Louis  adopts,  he  will  maintain  the  honour  —  ha  —  of 
our  family,  sans  tache.^'' 

"  Come,  Calthrop,  and  have  a  final  cigar,"  said  the 
Doctor. 

"  I  say,  Wilson,"  said  Dr.  Calthrop,  as  he  pinched  off 
the  end  of  his  cigar,  "  you'll  forgive  the  comparison ; 
but  your  good  brother-in-law  reminds  me  strongly  of 
the  'Father  of  the  Marshalsea,'  or  Casby." 

"  He  is  neither,"  said  Dr.  Wilson,  "  but  quite  an  in- 
genuous, good  man,  who  has  put  on  a  little  mannerism 
with  age.  Some  think  it  the  result  of  disease,  for  it  is 
certain  he  was  a  red-hot  rebel  in  his  youth.  There  is  a 
curious  story  told  of  him.  When  he  took  possession  of 
his  first  parish,  he  had  scarcely  arrived  when  he  got  a  mes- 
sage from  the  local  magnate  to  have  his  church  cleared 
of  pews,  benches,  and  seats  early  on  Monday  morning, 
for  that  the  landlord's  corn  should  be  threshed  there." 

"  What  ?  "  cried  Dr.  Calthrop,  removing  his  cigar. 

"  I  am  speaking  of  facts,"  said  Dr.  Wilson.  "  The 
priest  took  no  notice  of  the  order,  but  summoned  some 
few  sturdy  parishioners ;  and  when  the  landlord's  men 
had  arrived,  they  were  confronted  with  quite  a  regi- 
ment of  rapparees.  They  were  unprepared,  for  this  had 
never  occurred  before.  They  had  always  been  allowed 
to  thresh  their  corn  on  the  chapel  floor.  They  had  to 
retreat,  and  inform  at  headquarters  that  there  was  an 
insurrection  ;   and  tlien  —  " 

"And  then?"  said  Dr.  Calthrop,  deeply  interested. 

"  And  then  the  landlord  asked  the  priest  to  dine  ;  and 
ever  afterwards  there  was  a  cover  laid  for  the  priest  in 
the  mansion  ;  and  he  actually  got  permission  to  hang  up 
a  bell  in  an  extemporized  turret." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  Dr.  Calthrop,  "  that  we  Eng- 


CRITICAL   AND   EXPOSITORY  151 

lish  will  begin  to  understand  you  somewhere  about  the 
day  of  general  judgment." 

"  I'm  afraid  we'll  hardly  be  disposed  to  continue  the 
acquaintance  then,"  said  Dr.  Wilson.  "  We'll  have  to 
part  company  that  day,  if  not  before."  Dr.  Calthrop 
laughed. 

"  But  the  little  affectations  of  the  Canon  date  from 
that  event,"  said  Dr.  Wilson.  "He  became  a  man  of 
peace,  and  is  one  of  five  or  six  of  his  profession  in  Ire- 
land who  believe  in  landlords  —  and  the  Utopia,  where 
the  lion  lies  down  with  the  lamb.  Hitherto  he  has  been 
justified.  His  parish  is  a  paradise.  He  has  a  consid- 
erable private  income,  and  it  all  goes  to  improving  the 
condition  of  his  people.  The  cabins  have  become  cot- 
tages. The  old  manure  heaps  are  swept  away.  Flow- 
ers, vegetables,  new  breeds  of  poultry  —  everything 
novel  and  progressive  he  has  introduced.  No  one  dare 
oppose  him.  He  is  an  autocrat,  or  rather  a  patriarcli. 
His  very  mannerism  affects  the  people  strangely.  When 
he  stands  at  the  altar  on  Sunday  morning  and  sa3's  '  Ha  I ' 
you  would  think  Moses  had  come  dt)wn  from  the  moun- 
tain, so  reverential  and  awed  are  the  people.  He  doesn't 
boast ;  but  what  the  Jesuits  did  in  Paraguay,  he  is  doing 
in  his  own  parish." 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  told  me.  I'm  really  proud  to  meet 
such  a  man,"  said  the  guest.     "  O  si  sic  omnes  !  " 

"  But  like  all  his  class,  who  are  not  entirely  absorbed 
in  their  sacred  duties,  he  must  twine  his  tendrils  around 
something.  And  lu;  has  chosen  Louis  and  Barbara 
instead  of  a  dog  or  a  liurse." 

"  I  am  not  surprised  at  his  affection  for  his  niece," 
said  Dr.  Calthrop:  "she  is  the  gentlest  and  sweetest 
girl  I  have  ever  seen.  I  have  never  seen  a  hawk  and  a 
dove  in  close  company  till  to-night,  when  I  saw  that 
woman  sitting  near  her  at  the  dinner  table." 

"Ay!"  said  Dr.  Wilson,  and  liis  voice  would  have 
broken  sadly  but  for  that  blessed  cigar  ;  "  but  like  all 
things  else,  she  Avill  leave  me.  Now,  I  could  si)are 
Louis  easily,  but  I  can't  spare  her.     She'll  go  and  he'll 


152  LUKE  DELMEGL 

stay  ;  and  I  am  not  certain  which  will  be  the  more  bitter 
trial." 

"  Go  where  ?    Where  will  she  go  ?  "  said  Dr.  Calthrop. 

"  Look  here,  Calthrop  !  You  cannot  understand.  It 
is  all  the  d — d  literalness  of  this  religion  of  ours.  '  Go 
sell  all  thou  hast  and  give  to  the  poor  ; '  — '  Consider 
the  lilies  of  the  field  ;  '  — '  What  doth  it  profit  a  man  ?  ' 
—  'Deny  thyself,  take  up  thy  cross,  and  follow  me.' 
This  is  what  we  are  ever  hearing  ;  and  these  young 
featherheads  believe  it  all  and  take  it  letter  by  letter." 

•'  It  sounds  very  like  the  Gospel,  though,"  said  Dr. 
Calthrop. 

"  Of  course.  But  this  is  the  nineteenth  century. 
'  Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field  ! '  What  chance  would 
any  unfortunate  man  have,  with  such  a  belief  as  that, 
amongst  the  army  of  rabid  and  unscrupulous  Orange- 
men here  in  Dublin  ?  He  would  be  in  the  workhouse 
in  a  month." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Dr.  Calthrop,  smoking  leisurely. 

"■  Now,  there's  the  beauty  of  your  religion,"  said  Dr. 
Wilson.  ''  It  fits  you  like  a  dressing-gown  —  ease,  beauty, 
elasticity.  You  can  sit,  stand,  or  lie.  You  can  be  any- 
thing you  like  —  Turk,  Jew,  or  atheist,  Freemason, 
agnostic,  Socinian,  —  but  no  one  minds.  You  can  rob, 
steal,  swindle,  and  sit  down  calmly  the  following  Sun- 
day and  hear  that  such  have  no  place  in  the  Kingdom 
of  Heaven.  I  call  that  delightful.  But  let  one  of  our 
musty,  barefooted  friars  say,  with  certain  emphasis  next 
Sunday  :  '  Come,  rise  up,  and  follow  the  footsteps  of 
blood,'  why,  every  little  girl  is  dying  to  start  at  once 
for  China  or  Japan,  and  get  her  little  neck  chopped  off 
by  some  pig-tailed  savage.  And  this  will  be  the  way 
witli  Barbara.  Instead  of  a  few  balls  and  parties,  and 
then  a  decent  marriage,  she  will  become  a  '  servant  of 
the  poor,'  or  kitchen-maid  to  a  parcel  of  lunatics." 

"•  And  your  son  —  has  he  similar  notions  ?  " 

"  Will  sow  his  wild  oats,  I  suppose." 

"  And  then  ?  " 

"And  then  depend  on  his  uncle  for  a  dispensary." 


CHAPTER   XIII 
RACIAL   CHARACTERISTICS 

Luke  Delmege  had  passed  through  the  stages  of  pri- 
mary education  at  a  national  school,  of  secondary  edu- 
cation at  college  ;  he  was  now  enrolled  as  graduate  in 
the  great  University  of  the  World.  Books  were  his 
professors,  and  men  were  his  books.  The  former  were 
fairly  consistent  in  their  teaching  ;  the  latter  were  for- 
ever puzzling  and  troubling  him  with  their  strange 
inconsistencies.  The  fragments  of  the  best  of  human 
literature  that  have  escaped  the  corrosion  of  centuries 
could  be  pieced  together  and  made  a  harmonious  whole  ; 
but  not  even  charity  itself,  the  best  and  most  cunning 
of  artists,  was  able  to  reconcile  with  themselves,  or  with 
any  standard  of  truth  or  principle,  the  ever-varying  ec- 
centricities of  men.  Hence  came  Luke's  final  tempta- 
tion, to  whicli  he  succumbed,  as  we  shall  see —  namely, 
to  live  in  ideas,  not  in  action  ;  and  hence,  here  in  the 
Babylon  of  the  world,  he  yearned  from  time  to  time  for 
more  liberty  of  thought,  free  from  action  ;  for  a  little 
solitude  to  soothe  weary  nerves  and  a  perplexed  mind. 

One  of  the  many  weary  tilings  that  puzzled  Luke  in 
these,  his  novitiate  days,  was  the  tremendous  waste  of 
power,  moral  and  intellectual  —  the  output  of  energy 
and  zeal  in  every  parish  in  England,  and  the  infinitesi- 
mal results.  He  could  not  understand  why  all  England 
should  not  be  gathered  into  the  fold,  as  sheep  would 
flock  to  a  mountain  refuge  at  the  approach  of  a  storm. 
Here  was  Truth  ;  here  was  Peace  ;  here  was  Grace  ! 
Why  dwell  ve  in  the  valleys  of  darkness  when  tlie 
mountain  of  light  is  so  near  ?     \V  hy  perisli  m  the  storm 

163 


154  LUKE  DELMEGE 

when  the  shepherd  beckons  to  the  safety  of  His  fold  ? 
He  took  up  the  weekly  papers.  Yes  !  Life,  vitality, 
energy  everywhere.  Sermons,  exhortations,  organiza- 
tions —  sermons,  convincing  and  appealing  ;  exhorta- 
tions, pathetic  and  luminous  ;  organizations,  perfect  and 
vital  ;  but  it  was  ploughing  the  sea  and  casting  seed  on 
the  desert.  The  claims  of  the  Church  were  irrefragable 
and  invincible.  So  Luke  thought  and  felt.  He  took 
up  an  Anglican  paper.     His  eye  caught  the  lines  :  — 

"  And  wliilst  thus  we  can  contemplate  with  pride  and  satisfac- 
tion the  history  of  our  Church  from  the  days  of  Augustine  until 
now ;  its  purity  of  doctrine,  untouched  by  superstition  ;  its  consist- 
ency and  comprehensiveness  ;  its  beautiful  ritual,  that  never  de- 
generates into  mummery ;  and  the  vast  number  of  heroic  souls  it 
has  given  to  the  world  and  the  world's  most  sacred  causes,  we  are 
speechless  with  astonishment  at  the  insolence  of  this  Italian  mis- 
sion, that  has  unhappily  got  a  foothold  in  our  midst.  It  is  as  if  a 
colony  of  hinds  was  sent  to  colonize  and  civilize  a  university." 

Luke  read  it  over  twice  with  blazing  eyes.  Then  he 
rolled  the  paper  into  a  knot  ;  and  played  Rugby  football 
around  his  room  for  the  next  half  an  hour,  accompany- 
ing the  amusement  with  the  following  soliloquy  :  "  The 
English  truthful  ?  They  are  the  greatest  liars  and 
hypocrites  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  They  are  too  con- 
temptuous to  stoop  to  lying  in  private  life.  They  care 
too  little  about  you  to  condescend  to  lie.  But  in  poli- 
tics, commerce,  religion  —  whenever  a  point  has  to  be 
gained,  they  will  lie  like  Satan."  He  raised  the  subject 
at  dinner  that  day.  His  confreres  laughed.  It  was 
only  Celtic  effervescence. 

"  But  you  know,  Delmege,"  said  Arthur,  a  bright 
young  priest,  "  if  you  want  to  practise  a  |>as  seul  or  an 
Irish  jig  in  future,  please  try  the  Chapter-room,  and 
don't  throw  down  my  ceiling." 

A  few  days  later  he  crossed  Westminster  Bridge,  and 
doubling  hither  and  thither  through  narrow  streets,  he 
stood  before  a  medireval  church.  It  looked  like  a  piece 
of  Pompeii,  dug  from  the  dust  of  centuries.  He  en- 
tered.    The  beautiful  stained  glass  almost  blinded  him 


RACIAL    CHARACTERISTICS  155 

with  its  colours  ;  but  lie  only  cast  one  curious  look 
around,  said  a  short  prayer,  and  went  out.  It  was  not 
art,  but  a  man  he  was  in  quest  of.  He  knocked  at  the 
presbytery  door  and  was  ushered  into  a  small,  gloomy 
parlour.  Its  furniture  consisted  of  a  round  mahogany 
table,  two  chairs,  and  a  dilapidated  sofa.  The  day  was 
dark,  and  the  gloom  so  great  that  Luke  coukl  not  read 
Compline.  In  a  few  minutes  the  door  opened  and 
a  priest  entered.  He  was  a  tall,  handsome  man,  very 
dark,  with  thick  black  hair,  just  turning  to  gray,  and 
great  glowing  eyes,  that  gave  one  at  once  the  idea  of 
great  penetration  and  strength.  The  first  quick  view 
said  unreservedly  :  "  This  is  a  giant  amongst  men  — 
one  who  will  leave  his  mark  on  the  age."  But  alas  I  it 
was  as  if  a  lay  figure  had  its  props  suddenly  loosed ;  for 
after  the  first  brief  salutation,  the  world-weary  priest 
flung  himself  on  the  sofa  with  a  gesture  and  an  aspect 
of  infinite  weakness  or  pain. 

Luke  timidly  put  a  few  questions  on  some  theological 
subject,  which  were  courteously  answered  ;  and  then, 
passing  his  hand  across  his  foreliead,  this  great  convert 
said  :  — 

"  I  know  you  will  excuse  me.  Father,  when  I  tell  you 
that  I  am  not  at  all  well,  and  even  conversation  is  pain- 
ful and  wearying.  I  am  threatened  with  neurastlienia 
from  overwork,  and  1  must  go  abroad  Allow  me  to 
say  good-evening." 

Luke  stammered  an  apology  as  he  took  the  proffered 
hand.  He  looked  up  onto  the  finely  cut,  worn  face  ; 
and  as  he  thought  "this  man  sacriticed  a.  thousand  a  year, 
and  broke  every  family  tie  for  the  sake  of  truth,  and  is 
now  a  martyr  to  work  for  Christ,"  his  heart  repented 
of  his  rash  judgments  on  the  race  ;  and  with  Celtic  im- 
])ulsiveness,  he  stooped  and  kissed  the  white  hand  that 
lay  in  his  own,  and  de[)arted  with  strange  sensations. 

"  Neurasthenia  !  Thaiik  God,  -we  never  heard  of  that 
in  Ireland.  But  is  it  a  subject  to  thank  God  for?  Is 
it  not  better  to  wear  out  than  rust  out?  And  is  tliere 
not  something  in  that  singular  philosophy  of  St.  Paul 


156  LUKE  DELMEGE 

about  '  spending  and  being  spent  for  Christ  ? '  And 
omnia  detrimentum  feci,  et  arbitror,  ut  stercora?' 
Which  of  the  two  would  you  choose,  Luke  ?  To  pass 
on,  in  smooth  and  placid  respectability  to  the  canon's 
stall  foreshadowed  for  you  by  the  Canon,  or  to  be 
utterly  wrecked  in  middle  age  like  this  martyr-priest, 
who  has  now  to  go  abr(Xid  and  be  supported  by  charity 
for  the  remainder  of  his  life  ?  " 

There  is  no  doubt  whatever  that  this  latter  is  the  more 
heroic.  But  is  it  prudent?  Is  it  consistent  with  com- 
mon sense  ? 

And  Luke  was  confronted  with  another  puzzle.  And 
if  he  felt  that  the  sublime  philosophy  of  Christianity 
was  altogether  in  favour  of  self-sacrifice  and  suffering, 
on  the  other  hand  the  '■"  common  sense  of  all  mankind  " 
was  just  as  emphatically  against  it.  And  which  is 
right  ?  Dear  me  I  dear  me  !  what  an  enigma  is  life  I 
But  that  weary  figure  and  furrowed  face  haunted  Luke 
for  many  a  long  day. 

It  was  evening  now.  The  lamps  were  lighted,  and 
he  turned  back  into  the  church.  The  seats  were  being 
gradually  filled,  and  Luke  determined  to  wait  for  Bene- 
diction. He  sat  under  one  of  the  gas  jets  and  took  out 
his  diurnal  to  finish  Compline.  Then,  just  as  the  sac- 
risty clock  tolled  seven,  the  same  wearied,  broken  priest, 
preceded  by  a  few  acolytes,  emerged  from  the  sacristy 
and  knelt  before  the  high  altar.  He  looked  stooped 
and  shaken,  and  his  voice  was  almost  inaudible  as  he 
recited  the  Rosary.  There  was  a  short,  sweet  hymn  to 
our  Blessed  Lady  ;  and  then  the  tired  priest  ascended 
with  difficulty  the  steps  of  the  pulpit. 

"  Surely  he's  not  going  to  preach  ?  "  said  Luke. 

Ah  !  yes,  he  was.  No  relaxation  or  intermission 
here,  until  the  poor  frame  sinks  to  rise  no  more.  It 
was  a  voice  from  the  grave.  It  sounded  so  gentle,  so 
mournful  ;  and  the  preacher  seemed  to  experience  such 
tremendous  difficulty  in  seizing  and  arranging  his  fugi- 
tive thoughts,  that  Luke  every  moment  expected  a  bad 
break-down.     It  was  quite  clear  that  the  faculties  of 


EACIAL    CHARACTERISTICS  157 

the  mind  were  refusing  to  work.  They  had  been  driven 
too  hard,  and  were  in  revolt.  And  so  there  were  repe- 
titions and  very  inconsequential  arguments,  and  a  very 
few  words  were  mumbled  and  mouthed  as  if  from  a  semi- 
paralyzed  tongue ;  and  a  few  verbs  were  misplaced  and 
mispronounced,  and  there  was  an  agonized  look  on  the 
preacher's  face,  as  if  he  were  face  to  face  with  a  trial 
whose  issue  might  Ije  fearful  and  sudden.  Luke  couldn't 
bear  it.  He  looked  away  and  thought  :  Only  a  few 
years  ago  this  man  had  won  the  Ireland  Scholarship 
and  the  Newdigate  Prize  at  Oxford,  and  was  in  a  fair 
way  towards  a  Fellowship  and  a  Mitre.  What  a  sacri- 
fice !  What  a  chano-e  !  Then  the  concluding-  words 
came  clear  and  solemn  :  "  You  shall  know  the  truth, 
and  the  truth  shall  make  you  free."  These  were  the 
last  public  words  of  the  speaker,  and  Luke  was  per- 
plexed to  liear  them.  During  the  solemn  rite  of  Bene- 
diction that  succeeded,  Luke  saAv  only  bowed  lieads,  nor 
was  there  even  a  whispered  prayer  ;  but  at  that  most 
toucliing  prayer  which  is  said  just  as  the  monstrance  is 
replaced  u])on  tlie  throne,  that  prayer  for  the  convcn-- 
sion  of  England  that  takes  one  back  insensibly  to  luiuiau 
catacombs  and  pagan  imperialism,  Luke  thought  he 
heard  the  sound  of  sobbing. 

"  It  cannot  be,"  he  said  ;  "  these  English  are  too 
stolid." 

But  a  few  moments  later  he  saw  faces  of  well-dressed 
ladies  wet  and  glistening  with  tears,  \\lii(li  immediately 
wer(^  wiped  away;  for,  you  know,  we  are  Englisli,  and, 
above  all  things  else,  we  must  not  vicld  to  sentiment  or 
demonstrative  piety,  and  I>uke  thought  —  I'acial  char- 
acteristics are  humbug.  Tlie  human  lieart  is  the  same 
everywhere. 

Me  passed  rapidly  along  the  streets  on  his  way 
homewards.  He  was  brt)ught  to  a  sudden  standstill  on 
the  side  way  of  the  Strand  b}^  a  long  queue  of  men,  two 
and  two,  who,  ranged  on  tlie  outer  edge  of  the  pavement, 
waited  in  calm,  stolid  silence  for  sometliing  tliat  was 
slow  in  coming.     There  was  quite  room  enough  on  the 


158  LUKE  DELMEGE 

inside  path  for  pedestrians.  What  is  it  ?  A  funeral? 
No,  not  at  such  an  hour.  It  was  only  fifty  or  sixty 
men,  waiting  for  a  place  in  the  theatre  close  by.  They 
were  as  silent  as  mutes.  "  What  a  laughing,  rollicking, 
joking  crowd  that  would  have  been  in  Ireland  !  "  thought 
Luke.  "  Verily,  they  take  their  pleasures  sadly  !  After 
all,  they  are  a  stolid,  unfeeling  race  !  And  what  mer- 
curial beings  are  we  !  " 

Just  then,  an  arm  was  locked  in  his,  and  a  very  marked 
Hibernian  voice  exclaimed  :  — 

"  Well,  Luke  Delmege,  who'd  ever  think  of  seeing 
you  here,  waiting  to  get  into  the  Gaiety  ?  The  world 
is  topsy-turvy  enough  ;  but  I  never  thought  you  could 
turn  such  a  somersault." 

Luke  laughed  at  the  absurdity,  as  he  recognized  an 
old  college  acquaintance,  who  had  "  cut  "  in  his  physic 
year,  had  then  become  a  successful  journalist,  and  was 
now  one  of  that  famous  band  of  matadores  who  were 
fretting  the  flanks  of  John  Bull. 

"  Come  along,"  said  the  "  Mimber,"  "  we'll  have  a  cup 
of  tea  here  at  the  '  Marguerite,'  and  then  you  must  come 
to  see  a  field  night  at  the  House.  No  !  no  !  no  excuses  ! 
there's  electricity  in  the  atmosphere,  and  sure  to  be  a 
thunderclap  to-night." 

"  Then  why  are  you  not  at  your  post  ?  "  said  Luke  ; 
"isn't  the  House  open  since  four?  " 

"  Quite  so,  old  man,  if  you  allow  me  to  use  such  a 
familiarity  with  an  old  chum,  but  we  allow  the  animals 
to  feed  from  seven  to  half-past  eight.  Then,  when  well 
gorged  with  meat  and  wine,  they're  an  easy  prey." 

"  And  do  you  keep  your  heads  cool  ?  "  said  Luke.  His 
friend  lifted  up  a  cup  of  tea,  and  nodded  significantly. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Luke,  "  and  you  can  tell  me,  for 
you  have  experience,  do  you  believe  in  'racial  char- 
acteristics'? The  problem  is  puzzling  me  dreadfully." 
The  Member  laid  down  his  cup,  took  out  a  cigarette, 
lighted  it,  looked  long  at  Luke,  and  spoke  :  — 

"  Racial  characteristics  ?  I  do,  firmly.  I  believe,  for 
example,  that  we,  Irish,  are  the  coolest,  most  judicious, 


RACIAL    CHARACTERISTICS  159 

most  calculating,  far-seeing  race  on  the  face  of  the  earth. 
Our  cunning  is  Ulyssean ;  our  wisdom  is  Promethean, 
and,  as  for  tenacity,  nothing  in  all  creation  can  beat  us 
—  but  an  oyster  !     Come  !  " 

They  walked  rapidly  down  by  Trafalgar  Square,  past 
the  great  Whitehall  buildings,  and,  just  as  they  ap- 
proached the  Westminster  Palace  Yard,  on  a  sudden  the 
vast  rush  through  the  crowded  thoroughfare  stopped  as 
if  by  magic.  Stately  carriages,  gaily  dressed  pedes- 
trians, cabs,  horses — all  stood  still,  as  if  petrified.  The 
Member  looked  calmly  at  the  imperial  demonstration  in 
his  honour  for  a  moment,  then  moved  across  swiftly,  and, 
unlocking  his  arm  from  that  of  the  astonished  Luke,  he 
said  :  — 

"  You  go  around  by  the  public  entrance.  I  shall 
meet  you  in  the  lobby  in  a  moment." 

Luke  had  not  long  to  wait  in  the  famous  lobby,  just 
long  enough  to  see  that,  if  there  be  on  the  face  of  the 
earth  a  levelling,  democratic  spot,  where  all  distinctions 
are  fused  down,  and  all  human  hopes  concentred  and 
unified  in  one  desire,  it  is  here.  That  desire  is  to  see 
your  own  Member.  Luke  had  not  long  to  wait.  Gaily 
and  happily  at  ease,  dispensing  smiles  all  round,  yet 
maintaining  a  certain  unperturbed  dignity,  his  friend  ap- 
peared. The  i)oliceman  saluted  and  shouted  :  ''The  Rev- 
erend Luke  Midge."  Luke  admitted  the  impeachn:ent, 
and  was  led  into  the  inner  sanctuary  througli  rows  of 
marble  busts  and  stately  pictures  of  long-buried  states- 
men, whilst  the  disappointed  mob  howled  in  their  hearts 
outside.  Into  the  inner  lob))v,  sacred  to  statesmen,  mix- 
inof  amontjst  notabilities,  rubbing  his  shouhler  against 
Cabinet  ministers,  the  wondering  Luke  passed  with  Ids 
guide,  who  accosted  a  gorgeous  official  and  demanded  a 
ticket  for  his  friend. 

"•  You  can  have  a  seat  in  the  gallery,  sir,"  said  the 
official  with  awful  deference,  "  but  I  regret  to  say  that 
all  the  seats  are  taken  under  tlie  gallery." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  There's  one  vacant,"  said  the 
Member.      "  1  insist  on  having  that  seat." 


160  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  That  seat,  sir,  belongs  to  Lord  Vavasour.  He's 
just  dining  witli  the  Secretary  for  Home  Affairs,  and 
has  kept  it  engaged  till  his  return." 

"  You  should  know  the  rules  of  the  House,  sir,"  said 
the  Member.  '•■  No  stranger  can  retain  a  seat,  except 
he  is  in  actual  possession." 

"  Quite  true,  sir,"  said  the  official.  "  You  must  not 
consider  me  discourteous  ;  I  was  trying  to  smooth 
matters.     Name,  please  ?  " 

"  Delmege  !  "  said  the  Member,  as  the  official  handed 
the  ticket  to  Luke,  who,  half  ashamed  and  almost  terri- 
fied, passed  wondering  up  the  narrow  stairs,  and  in  a 
moment  was  in  the  "  House."  It  was  a  wonder,  a  sur- 
prise, a  disappointment;  but  we  needn't  repeat  the  old 
story  here.  Luke  sat  still  on  his  narrow  bench,  rnd 
gaped. 

"  Take  off  your  hat,  please  !  " 

Luke  had  forgotten  his  politeness  and  his  loyalty. 
The  official  said  quietly  and  politely  :  "  It's  like  a  school, 
sir  ;  and,  by-and-bye,  you'll  see  some  rough  horseplay." 

"  Does  this  —  this  —  assembly  control  the  destinies  of 
300,000,000  people  ?  "  asked  Luke. 

"  It  thinks  so  !  "  said  the  man. 

Just  then  the  suj)porters  of  the  Government  began  to 
drop  in.  Luke  was  on  the  Government  side  of  the 
House.  There  was  but  a  low  balustrade  between  him 
and  them.  In  they  came,  flushed  as  to  face,  and  very 
white  as  to  capacious  shirt  front.  They  congregated 
in  groups  of  three  or  four,  and  began  to  exchange  re- 
marks. There  was  a  pleasant  odour  of  whiskey  and 
patchouli  in  the  air.  "  I  thought  the  English  never 
drank  spirits,"  said  Luke.  "The  racial  characteristics 
are  a  puzzle." 

Yes,  the  air  was  electric.  You  couldn't  tell  why. 
There  were  no  indications.  There  was  no  great  debate 
on.  Members  lounged  and  chatted  and  laugfhed.  There 
was  no  drawing  up  and  marshalling  of  forces,  no  organ- 
izing of  battalions,  no  arrangement  of  reserves.  But 
the  air  was  electric.     You  felt  it  tingling  in  your  fin- 


b 


RACIAL    CHARACTERISTICS  161 

gers,  and  running  up  along  your  spine.     The  servant 
felt  it. 

"  There's  something  on  to-night,  sir  !  "  he  said. 

Three  feet  away  from  where  Luke  sat,  close  to  one 
of  the  pillarets  that  sustained  the  gallery,  a  very  little 
man,  with  a  very  long  coat,  a  bald  head,  and  a  heavy 
mustache  that  curled  up  to  his  ears,  was  engaged  in 
earnest  consultation  with  a  colleague.  "•  Tlie  leader  of 
the  House,  sir,"  whispered  the  servant. 

At  last,  the  hours  stole  on  to  eleven,  and  Luke  began 
to  think  it  was  time  to  go  home.  His  friend,  the  Mem- 
ber, came  over,  sat  on  the  balustrade,  and  began  to  chat 
gaily.  Not  a  word  between  him  and  the  full-dressed 
mob  around.  They'd  have  torn  him  limb  from  limb  if 
they  dared. 

"  Going  home  ?  "  he  cried  to  Luke.  "  You'll  do  noth- 
ing of  the  kind.  The  Lord  has  given  you  a  chance  that 
will  never  occur  again." 

Just  here,  an  old  officer,  gray -headed  and  gray- 
bearded,  spoke  to  the  Member.  He  was  a  su])piiant  — 
a  humble,  abject,  beseeching  client.  He  begged  and 
entreated  the  Member  to  bring  on  some  wretched  thing 
about  pensions,  or  to  promise  to  speak  if  the  bill  were 
introduced. 

"  I  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  the  Member, 
haughtily.  ''  We  have  other  work  before  us  to-night."' 
The  officer  slunk  away,  cowed  and  discomfited.  Luke's 
opinion  of  his  country  was  rising  steadily. 

'•'Now  I  must  be  off,"  said  the  Member.  "There  is 
big-wig  in  the  chair.  Now,'  sit  fast,  old  man.  And 
look  here  !  Don't  let  your  feelings  overcome  you  !  If 
you  cheer,  or  toss  up  your  liat,  they'll  turn  you  out, 
and  you  won't  see  a  bull-baiting  again." 

And  so  Luke  waited  patiently,  now  watching  the 
confused,  anxious  crowd  at  the  ministerial  side  of  the 
House,  and  again  fixing  his  eyes  on  that  silent,  serried 
mass  tliat  thronged  the  lowest  benches  on  the  left  of 
the  Speaker's  chair.  And  here,  the  object  of  all  vision, 
of  all  thought,  of  all  anxiety,  sat  the  Man  of  Mystery, 


M 


162  LUKE  DELMEGE 

silent,  immovable,  whilst  anxious  ministers  looked  to 
him  for  a  sis^n  or  some  articulate  utterance  of  what  he 
was  brooding  over  and  plotting  there  in  the  corner 
seat  just  below  the  gangway.  At  last,  one  of  his  lieu- 
tenants rose,  and  moved  the  adjournment  of  the  House. 
The  proposal  was  met  with  a  shout  of  indignant  scorn. 
A  division  was  demanded,  and  Luke,  with  the  rest,  was 
relegated  to  the  lobby.  In  a  few  minutes  it  was  over, 
and  they  returned.  The  Government  had  a  sweeping 
majority.  There  was  a  cheer  of  exultant  triumph. 
The  first  lines  of  the  enemy  had  been  repulsed.  The 
debate  went  on.  Then  quietly,  a  second  lieutenant  rose 
in  his  place,  and  moved  the  adjournment  of  the  House. 
This  time  a  yell  broke  from  the  ministerial  benches. 
The  adjournment  was  fiercely  and  angrily  refused.  A 
division  was  demanded,  and  another  Pyrrhic  victory 
gained.  There  was  a  mighty  shout  from  the  ministerial 
lists.  Calm  and  immovable  sat  the  Irish  (/uerrilleros, 
whilst  their  opponents,  wild  with  passion,  appeared  to 
be  lashing  themselves  into  frenzied  madness.  The 
debate  went  on  ;  and  just  as  the  hands  of  the  clock 
pointed  to  twelve,  a  division  was  again  demanded.  With 
suppressed,  but  badly  suppressed  passion,  the  leader  of 
the  House  leaned  forward  on  the  despatch-boxes  and 
hissed :  — 

"If  we  have  to  remain  in  session  for  forty-eight 
hours  the  Government  is  determined  that  this  measure 
shall  pass  ;  nor  will  the  House  adjourn  until  that  is 
accomplished." 

The  captain  of  the  guerrilleros  sat  silent  and  grim. 
And  then  a  peal  of  electric  bells  ;  and  then  the  solemn 
march  through  the  turnstiles ;  another  Governmental 
victory,  and  the  House  settled  down  to  business  again. 
Then  arose  another  of  the  lawless  but  disciplined 
phalanx,  and  moved  the  adjournment  of  the  House. 
There  was  another  angry  yell  ;  and  again  Agamemnon 
spoke  :  — 

"  I  assure  the  honourable  gentlemen  at  the  other  side 
of  the  House  that  the  Government  has  no  intention  of 


RACIAL    CHARACTERISTICS  163 

yielding  on  that  point,  and  that  the  House  must  remain 
in  session  until  this  measure  is  carried." 

Then  the  Silent  One  arose,  and  eight  hundred  beings, 
the  flower  of  English  intellect,  hung  breathless  on  liis 
words.  They  were  few.  Passing  his  hand  behind  his 
coat-collar,  and  then  running  it  down  through  his  thick 
hair,  he  spoke  in  the  echo  of  a  whisper  ;  but  it  was 
heard  in  every  cranny  in  the  building:  — 

"•  The  Right  Hon.  gentleman  refuses  to  adjourn  the 
House.  I  tell  him  the  House  will  adjourn,  and  the 
sooner  the  better." 

It  was  a  plain  challenge  to  the  omnipotence  of  Eng- 
land, and  as  such  was  accepted.  This  time  there  was 
no  shouting.  The  division  bell  rang.  The  members 
trooped  through  the  turnstile.  Another  victory  for  the 
Government  ;  but  the  leader  of  the  House  again  came 
forward,  and  leaning  his  arms  again  on  the  despatch- 
boxes,  he  said,  almost  humbly  :  — 

"  There's  no  use  in  prolonging  the  useless  debate  in 
the  face  of  such  obstruction.  The  House  stands 
adjourned."  The  officials  laughed.  The  ministerial 
following  was  bewildered.  Then,  as  they  recognized 
their  defeat,  tliey  muttered  curses  on  their  leaders  ; 
and  angry,  shamed,  disappointed,  they  trooped  from 
the  House.  The  victors  did  not  even  clieer.  l^uke 
thought  :  "  I'll  never  believe  in  racial  cluiracteristics 
again.  I  knew  they  were  always  humbug  !  "  His 
friend,  the  jNlember,  came  over. 

"•  Wasn't  that  pretty  ?  Crumpled  up,  like  a  piece  of 
tissue-paper  !  " 

^  Can  you  kee})  it  up  ?  "  (pieried  Luke.  His  friend 
looked  long  and  earnestly  at  him. 

"  Yes,  till  victory,  which  we,  the  descendants  of  kings, 
shall  then  most  royally  throw  away.  'Diil  I  really 
hurt  you,  poor  old  lUiU  ?  Em  awfully  sorry.  Get  up, 
old  man,  and  come  have  a  drink.'  That's  the  finale  to 
the  comedy  you  have  witnessed.     Good-niglit  !  " 

The  great  clock  of  St.  StepluMi's  was  chiming  "one" 
as  Luke  crossed  Westminster  Bridge. 


164  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  Glad  I  have  a  latch-key,"  he  murmured  ;  "  the  old 
Vicar  wouldn't  like  it,  and  he  sleeps  with  one  eye 
open." 

A  party  of  revellers  was  coming  towards  him.  They 
tried  to  jostle  him  off  the  footpath.  At  another  time 
he  would  have  yielded  ;  but  the  si:)ell  of  conquest  was 
upon  him.  He  resisted,  and  came  into  personal  contact 
with  one,  who  was  almost  intoxicated.  It  was  Louis 
Wilson.  He,  too,  recognized  Luke  ;  and  turning  away, 
he  said  to  his  companions  :  — 

"  'Tis  only  a  peasant  priest  from  Ireland.  I  know  a 
little  of  the  fellow.     He  hath  a  pretty  sister." 

The  next  moment  Luke's  strong  hand  was  on  his 
collar,  and  he  swung  him  round. 

"  Now,  gentlemen,"  said  one  of  the  revellers,  "  this  is 
Westminster  and  not  Donnybrook.  Keep  quiet,  or 
bedad,  and  begorra,  you  will  find  yourselves  in  the 
lock-up." 

"  Your  names,  gentlemen,  please,"  said  an  officer, 
moving  up. 

Luke  heard  as  in  a  dream  :  "11  Albemarle  Buildings, 
Victoria  Street." 

Wilson  passed  on. 

"  Never  mind,  sir,"  said  the  officer,  as  Luke  fumbled 
for  a  card  ;  "  it  will  rest  here  unless  he  prosecutes. 
But  take  no  notice  of  these  fellows  in  future." 

There  was  no  real  sleep  that  night  for  Luke.  Amidst 
the  agony  and  shame  and  remorse  that  kept  the  wheels 
of  his  brain  burning  and  revolving,  he  thought  of  coun- 
try and  home.  He  saw  the  calm  peace  of  Ireland  rest- 
ing as  in  a  cloud  above  and  beyond  this  hateful 
Tartarus.  He  would  give  worlds  to  be  at  home  —  at 
home  at  Lisnalee,  pencilled  in  shadows  above  the  misty, 
beloved  sea.  He  would  sacrifice  a  few  years  of  life  to 
be  in  the  midst  of  the  kindliest  people  on  earth,  awa}^ 
from  these  horrible  automatons  ;  and  he  saw  with  tears 
the  little  parlour,  and  the  "  Inseparables,"  and  Father 
Tim  dropping  aphorisms  at  leisure,  and  at  leisure  drop- 
ping   slices    of   lemon   into   his   glass.     And  then  the 


RACIAL   CHARACTERISTICS  165 

burning  shame  came  back  again,  and,  as  he  dropped 
into  an  uneasy  slumber,  he  muttered  :  "  I  believe  there 
are  racial  characteristics  after  all." 

When  he  woke  from  unhappy  dreams  next  morning 
the  spectres  had  vanished.  London,  life,  ambition,  a 
great  future  were  all  before  him,  Lisnalee  was  a  gray, 
blurred  shadow  of  the  past. 


CHAPTER   XIV 
WEIGHING   ANCHOR 

It  was  inevitable  that  an  airy,  impetuous,  variable 
spirit  like  this  should,  under  pressing  circumstances, 
weigh  anchor  and  drift  with  the  tide.  Gradually,  as 
his  fine  genius  asserted  itself,  he  rose  above  all  his  con- 
freres, both  in  the  excellence  and  the  efficacy  of  his  work 
and  in  his  unquestionable  superiority  of  intellect.  The 
Rev.  Luke  Delmege  was  beginning  to  be  noticed.  His 
Bishop,  who  had  returned  from  Rome,  and  then  from  a 
long  round  of  visitations,  appeared  not  to  remark  hira 
particularly,  which  Luke,  in  his  rising  pride,  set  down 
to  national  prejudice.     Once  the  Bishop  said  :  — 

"  Delmege,  you  are  not  quite  so  mercurial  as  the  gen- 
erality of  your  countrymen.  Don't  you  like  your  sur- 
roundings ?  " 

Then  Luke  protested  that  he  was  happy,  very  happy, 
and  did  not  seek  a  change. 

Once,  too,  the  old  Vicar  said  in  his  rough,  kindly 
way  :  — 

"Here  you  are  again,  Delmege!  It  is  a  bad  thing  for 
a  young  man  when  the  papers  notice  him.  You'll  have 
as  much  space  soon  as  Madame  Seigel's  Syrup." 

But  the  younger  men  were  more  explicit  and  generous. 
His  name  had  gone  across  the  river,  and  he  had  been  in- 
vited to  preach  at  the  Commercial- Road,  and  to  lecture 
to  workingmen  at  the  Mechanics'  Hall  in  Holborn.  He 
had  pushed  on  his  schools  until  the  Inspector  wondered 
at  his  own  report,  and  the  Diocesan  Inspector  had  asked 
for  him  as  an  assistant. 

166 


I 


WEIGHING   ANCHOR  167 

Meanwhile,  and,  of  course,  imperceptibly,  all  this 
externation  was  affecting  his  character  deeply.  His 
soul  was  starved.  All  his  energies  went  off  in  enthusi- 
astic work.  He  never  perceived  that  it  was  sheer 
materialism,  Avhen  the  soul  was  absent.  In  the  begin- 
ning he  consecrated  his  work  and  put  a  soul  into  it. 
Then,  as  vanity  assumed  control  and  men's  praises 
echoed  around  him,  he  puslied  forward  wildly.  Work, 
work,  work — here  was  his  cry!  The  gentle  personal 
love  for  his  Divine  Master  hallowed  and  sanctified  Ins 
earlier  efforts  ;  but  by  degrees  this  evaporated  in  favour 
of  a  Cause.  But  the  Cause  was  an  Impersonality, 
though  he  called  it  "the  Church."  If  he  had  identi- 
fied the  Church  with  its  Divine  Spouse,  all  would  have 
been  well.  But  no  !  The  honour  of  the  Church,  the 
advancement  of  the  Church,  the  glory  of  the  Church  — 
words  always  on  liis  lips,  and  of  such  awful  and  lial- 
lowed  significance,  —  conveyed  no  meaning,  no  life  to 
his  actions.  He  would  have  been  deeply  offended,  if 
any  one  had  hinted  that  he  had  degenerated  into  a  form 
of  worship  that  is  generally  veiled  under  a  sacred  guise 
—  and  only  labelled  by  the  truthful  malice  of  the  world, 
or  the  still  more  truthful  revelations  of  humility  — 
egotlieism.  Did  not  the  ancient  monks  say,  Lahorare 
est  orare?  And  here  just  now  is  not  the  sage  of  Chelsea 
preaching  the  same  divinity  of  work  '!  And  is  not  Stanley 
in  Christ  Church,  and  Jowett  in  IJalliol,  stimulating 
the  flagging  energies  of  Oxford  undergraduates  by  the 
same?  Work,  Avork,  work,  for  it  is  the  law  of  the  uni- 
verse,— the  laws  of  birth  and  death,  of  stars  and  flowers  ' 
Work,  because  thereby  you  are  identified  with  Nattire 
by  obeying  its  sacred  laws,  and  thereby  alone  is  true 
happiness  attainable  I  If  any  one  had  whispered  to 
Luke  in  tliese  days,  when  he  tliought  he  was  soaring  on 
the  highest  altitudes  of  inspiration:  "Come  apart  and 
rest  a  little  wlnle  !  "  he  would  have  scorned  the  sug- 
gestion as  a  temptation  to  abuse  of  the  highest  instincts 
and  betrayal  of  the  most  sacred  interests. 

It  was  rather  fortunate  for  Luke   that,  amidst  the 


168  LUKE  DELMEGE 

inevitable  jealousies  aroused  by  all  this  publicity,  he 
had  just  strength  of  mind  enough  to  move  steadily 
onward,  though  not  unbiased  or  undisturbed.  He  liad 
not  yet  had  experience  enough  to  write  on  the  tablets 
of  his  mind  the  Pauline  summing  up  of  existence  — 
intus  timores;  but  his  life  was  not  lacking  in  those 
external  modifications  which  the  Apostle  styles  —  the 
/oris  piignce.  Unfair  and  unfavourable  criticisms,  little 
hints  of  possible  imprudences  in  public  utterances,  vague 
suggestions  of  subdued  heresy,  the  complete  suppression 
of  some  fine  public  lecture  —  these  were  the  drawbacks 
in  a  buoyant  and  most  hopeful  career.  In  the  moments 
of  doubt  and  depression  that  followed,  —  and  they  were 
many,  —  a  memory  of  past  times,  of  the  frugal  banquets 
of  the  "  Inseparables,"  of  Father  Tim's  drolleries  and 
of  Father  Pat's  kindness,  would  recur  to  him ;  and 
sometimes  there  would  float  across  the  unda  irreme- 
abilis  a  tiny  letter  from  the  cottage  above  the  sea  at 
Lisnalee,  or  from  the  library  of  Father  Martin — hope- 
ful, cheerful,  amusing,  as  a  butterfly  would  float  in  from 
spring  meadows  and  lose  itself  in  the  horrors  of  some 
Lancashire  factory,  or  as  a  child  would  place  a  flower 
in  the  fingers  of  a  bronze  and  unfeeling  statue.  Then 
Luke  had  a  friend.  And  it  needs  not  the  sacred  en- 
dorsement of  Holy  Scripture,  or  the  expansive  comments 
of  that  great  interpreter,  Shakspere,  to  be  assured  that 
the  best  gift  of  the  gods  to  man  is  a  true  and  truthful 
friend.  And  Luke's  friend  was  not  afraid  to  tell  the 
trutli.  Witness  this.  They  were  walking  on  the  banks 
of  the  Serpentine. 

"  I  always  choose  this  place  for  quiet  meditation," 
said  the  friend,  in  an  explanatory  tone  to  Luke,  who 
was  rather  surprised  to  be  suddenly  introduced  into 
the  mighty  gangway  of  Life-Guards,  servant-maids, 
and  babies  ;  "  here  you  are  alone,  as  much  alone  as 
Werther  and  his  stars.  You  meet  no  one  that  will 
trouble  the  rim  of  your  hat ;  babies, — God  bless  them  I 
—  are  liappily  unconscious.  The  other  elements  of 
civilization  here  in  the  heart  of  the  world  are  too  much 


WEIGHING  ANCHOR  169 

engrossed  with  each  other  to  heed  you.  I  am  alone 
with  the  stars.  Now,  Delmege,  old  man,  can  you  bear  an 
operation?  For  I  am  going  to  do  what  my  judgment 
calls  the  rashest  and  maddest  and  most  ungrateful  thing 
—  1  am  going  to  pull  a  friend's  tooth.  It  is  quite  true 
that  tooth  is  aching.  Nevertheless,  man  is  an  ungrate- 
ful animal.  I  know  you  won't  bite ;  but  j)romise  not 
to  say  a  cuss-word.     I  can't  bear  that." 

"All  right,"  said  Luke,  "go  ahead!  I'm  used  to  it. 
There  never  before  was  such  a  target  for  the  small  shot 
of  gratuitous  advice.  I  am  as  bad  as  if  I  had  the  in- 
fluenza. P]very  old  woman  at  home  made  herself  a 
Minerva,  and  every  old  duffer  a  Mentor.  And  here  it 
is  worse.  It  is  quite  clear  the  world  regards  me  as  a 
complete  .and  unmitigated  fool !  "  Which  little  speech 
shows  how  far  Luke  had  gone  in  the  way  of  the  "galled 
jade." 

"  Now,  look  here,"  said  the  candid  friend,  "  all  that's 
quite  true  —  " 

"  I  l)eg  your  pardon,"  said  Luke,  stiffly. 

••  Ahem  !  I  mean  that  —  you  know  —  it  may  be  quite 
true,  you  know  —  that  advice,  very  well  meant  —  you 
know  —  does  not  always  comprehend  the  entire  sur- 
roundings—  look  at  that  impudent  slut  with  that 
soldier  !  " 

"  Oh  !  I  thought  you  were  alone  with  the  stars,"  said 
Luke  ;  which  at  once  restored  his  friend's  equilibrium. 

"  Well,  now,  look  here,  Delmege,  it  seems  to  me  that 
you  have  two  careers  Ix'fore  you.  On  tlie  one  liand  a 
life  of  usefulness  and  labour,  hidden,  unsuspected,  no 
storms,  no  trium})hs,  but  a  reward  exceeding  great  ; 
and  on  the  other  a  life  of  blare  and  brilliancy,  tliunder 
and  lightning,  honours  and  crosses,  and  then  —  " 

"I  understand,"  said  Luke.  "You'd  have  me  choose 
the  luunbler  and  safer  path  ?  " 

"Well,"  said  his  friend,  dubiously,  "perhaps  !  " 

"  Let  me  tell  you,"  said  Luke,  "  once  and  forever, 
that  I  have  deliberately  chosen  the  other  ;  not  because 
of  its  honours  and  emoluments  —  1  despise  them  !  but 


170  LUKE   DELMEGE 

the  Church  requires  it.  Ours  is  not  the  Church  of  the 
Catacombs,  but  of  Constantine  !  " 

"  It's  a  truth  and  a  faUacy,"  said  the  candid  friend. 
"  Meanwhile,  allowing  all  that,  and  presupposing  that 
you  are  right  in  your  decision,  I  don't  admit  it,  you 
know  —  " 

"  Don't  admit  what  ?  "  said  Luke. 

"  That  the  Church  requires  very  brilliant  men,  or  that 
the  world  is  much  in  need  of  them." 

"  The  world  regards  the  Church  as  a  molehill,"  said 
Luke  ;  "  a  subterranean,  cryptic,  concealed  system,  bur- 
rowing under  all  the  states  and  governments  of  the 
world,  —  its  conspirators  blinking  and  purblind  in  the 
light  of  day,  and  with  vision  enough  only  to  plot,  and 
delve,  and  undermine  all  the  institutions  of  civilization." 

"  Out  of  which  of  the  infidel  reviews  did  you  pick 
that  rhodomontade  ?  "  said  the  friend. 

"  There  now,"  said  Luke,  "  you  are  losing  temper, 
and  the  tooth  is  not  yet  drawn." 

"  Quite  true.  But  now  for  the  operation.  I  think 
you  are  going  too  fast  and  will  get  derailed.  All  this 
newspaper  notoriety,  'able  controversialist,'  'brilliant 
lecturer,'  etc.,  is  quite  enough  to  turn  any  head  not  well 
screwed  on  ;   and  yours,  you  know,  ah — " 

"Go  on,"  said  Luke,  "go  on." 

"  I'm  hurting  you,"  said  the  candid  friend. 

"  Oh  !  not  at  all,"  said  Luke.  "  I  rather  like  it.  It 
is  so  ingenuous,  you  know.  You  were  saying  some- 
thing about  my  head." 

"  I  see  I'm  hurting  you,"  said  the  friend.  "  Now,  I'll 
put  it  in  a  better  way.  Did  you  ever  feel  an  impulse 
to  go  down  on  your  knees  and  kiss  the  hem  of  the  gar- 
ment of  some  poor,  lialf-witted,  illiterate  old  duffer, 
who  knew  just  enough  of  Latin  to  spell  through  his 
breviary,  but  who  was  doing,  with  sublime  unconscious- 
ness, the  work  of  his  Master  ?  " 

Luke  was  struck  dumb.  These  were  almost  his  own 
words,  expressed  with  enthusiasm  not  quite  two  years 
ago. 


WEIGHING  ANCHOR  171 

"  Once,"  he  said  faintly  ;   "  but  I  had  no  experience." 

"  And  did  you  ever,"  said  the  friend,  not  noticing, 
"  did  you  ever  feel  an  irresistible  inclination  to  get 
behind  some  great,  intellectual  prodigy,  who  was  sweep- 
ing the  whole  world  before  him  apparently,  and  with 
one  glorious  coup-de-main  block  his  hat  before  all  his 
admirers  ?  " 

"  Never,"  said  Luke,  emphatically.  "  I  think  that  is 
narrow-minded  and  illiberal." 

"  Well,  I  did,"  said  his  friend,  dryly. 

"  Look  here,  now,  Sheldon,"  said  Luke,  "  once  and 
forever  let  me  say  that  I  feel,  and  am  sure,  that  the 
unnatural  delay  in  the  conversion  of  England  is  pri- 
marily due  to  this  cause.  You,  English,  are  so  narrow 
and  conservative  and  petty  in  your  views  that  you'll 
never  appeal  successfully  to  the  broad  human  spirit  of 
the  age.  You  don't  understand  the  Zeitgeist.  The 
whole  trend  of  human  thought  is  to  reconcile  revelation 
with  intellect  ;  and  out  of  the  harmony  to  evolve  a  new 
and  hopeful  instauration  of  human  blessedness.  Now, 
we  must  take  our  rightful  place  in  this  renascence.  It 
won't  do  to  be  silent.  Or,  rather,  we  must  speak  out 
boldly  and  conlidentially,  W'ith  large,  free  interpreta- 
tions of  natural  and  supernatural  revelations,  or  hold 
our  tongues  altogether.      Falls  er  nicht  schweigt ! ''' 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  said  Father  Sheldon,  "where  did 
you  pick  up  that  horrible  jargon  ?  What  in  the  name 
of  common  sense,  man,  are  you  reading  ?  " 

"  Tliere  now,  there  now,"  said  Luke,  "  you  don't  read, 
my  dear  fellow.  There's  the  great  drawback.  Tlicre's 
no  use  in  arguing  further.  We  move  on  different 
jjlanes  of  thought.  By  the  way,  are  you  coming  over 
to   Hermondsey  to  dine  to-morrow?" 

Father  Sheldon  said  nothing.  He  had  failed  to  pull 
that  tooth  ;  and  of  all  botches  in  creation,  an  unsuccess- 
ful dentist  is  the  worst. 

"  Poor  fellow,"  he  said  in  his  own  sanctum  afterwards, 
"he's  on  tlie  down  grade,  thougli  he  ap])ears  to  be  sky- 
flying.     That  rush  for  Mass  in  the  morning,  and  the 


172  LUKE   DELMEGE 

substitution  of  the  Rosary  for  the  Office  are  bad  signs. 
German  snatches  won't  make  up  for  it.  Well,  the  re- 
treat is  at  hand,  thank  God  !     Who  knows  ?  " 

The  retreat  came,  and  the  retreat  was  over  ;  and  Luke 
was  the  same  — only  worse.  The  preacher  was  a  distin- 
guished man,  and,  therefore,  a  failure  in  that  line.  Luke 
was  delighted  —  and  was  lost.  "  He  had  never  heard 
such  command  of  language  before  ;  "  "  he  did  not  know, 
till  then,  how  religion  could  be  lifted  so  beautifully  into 
the  regions  of  transcendentalism  ;  "  "  how  philosophy, 
in  the  hands  of  a  master,  can  be  made  the  handmaiden 
of  religion  ;  "  "  and  how  both  together  can  be  clothed  in 
iridescence  by  the  mastery  of  our  mother  tongue  ; "  "yes, 
of  course,  he  was  apologetic,  and  why  not  ?  He  was 
speaking  to  his  equals,  and  was  cpite  right  in  assuming 
that  they  knew  all  that  he  knew  ;  "  "he  said  ' sheol '  for 
*•  hell ' ;  well,  why  not  ?  It's  the  correct  word,  if  you  go 
so  far  ;  "  "  and  he  always  spoke  of  '  eschatology '  in 
place  of  'eternity';  very  well,  isn't  that  the  scientific 
term  ?  "  etc.,  etc. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said  to  Father  Sheldon,  "  these  are  the 
men  we  want.  I'd  give  half  a  year's  salary  to  see  him 
invited  over  to  Ireland  to  give  a  series  of  retreats. 
Wouldn't  he  wake  them  up  from  their  lethargy '! 
Wouldn't  he  show  them  what  culture  and  education 
can  do  ?  " 

"  I  thought  your  country  used  to  be  called  the 
'Island  of  Saints'?"  said  P'ather  Sheldon. 

"  Certainly  ;  so  it  was.  You  tried  to  rob  us  of  that 
as  of  everything  else.     But  you  can't  !  " 

"  But  the  preacher  said  that  the  saints  and  their 
lives  were  never  intended  for  imitation,  but  for  ad- 
miration." 

"  And  quite  right.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Simon 
Stylites  would  be  allowed  to  remain  twenty  years  or 
twenty  days  on  the  obelisk  in  these  times  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  not.  But  what  then  becomes  of  your 
countrymei:^  and  their  distinguished  title  ?     If  there's 


WEIGHING   ANCHOR  173 

no  room  for  one  saint,  what  do  we  want  with  a  whole 
island  full  of  them?" 

"  Look  here,  Sheldon,  you  are  a  horrible  reactionary 
—  a  medifevalist  —  an  Inquisitionist  !  How  in  the 
world  will  men  like  you  ever  convert  England  ?  " 

"  Fm  not  sure  that  it's  worth  converting,"  said 
Fatlier  Sheldon,  lazily  ;  "but  I'm  sure  of  one  thing  — 
that  that  modern  idea  that  we  are  to  hold  up  our  saints, 
our  beautiful  saints,  Francis  and  Ignatius  and  Alphonsus, 
Clare  and  Rose  and  Scholastica,  as  so  many  dime-mu- 
seum freaks,  to  be  looked  at  and  wondered  at  as  Divine 
Curiosities  and  no  more  —  is  the  most  horrible  conclu- 
sion which  our  Catholic  neologists  have  ever  reached." 

"  I  give  you  up,  Sheldon,"  said  Luke.  "  Fll  write 
to-night  to  a  confidential  friend  in  Ireland  to  get  over 
Father  Azarias  as  soon  as  possible.  He  has  a  big  field 
there." 

"  I  suppose  so.  May  the  Lord  grant  you,  Irish,  a 
good  conceit  o'  yersel's." 

Tliey  were  sitting  at  coffee  in  the  library.  It  was  Sun- 
day, and  dinner  was  at  four  P.M.,  instead  of  the  usual 
hour,  one  o'clock.  Tlie  P>is]io[)  had  said  a  few  pretty 
things  about  the  distinguished  preacher  the  day  before 
at  dinner.  But  the  Lisliop  was  inquisitive.  He  liked 
to  gather  opinions  —  nn  excellent  thing.  You  need 
never  ado[)t  them,  like  the  good  Irish  prelate  who 
declared  with  emphasis  that  he  never  took  an  impor- 
tant step  without  consulting  his  canons.  "  Hut  do 
you  always  follow  tlieir  counsels,  my  Lord  ?  "  The 
Bisho}),  emphatically  :   "Never  !  " 

Hut  they  wei'c  at  coffee. 

"•  Mow  tlid  you  like  the  retreat  ?  " 

Luke  was  effusive  and  enthusiastic.  The  Vicar  said  : 
"  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  he  might  as  well  have  been 
plaving  a  flute  the  whole  time.  It  was  certainly  very 
pretty." 

"  Father  Sheldon,  what  are  you  poring  over  there  ?  " 
said  the  Bishop.     Father  Sheldon  was  a  great  favourite. 


174  LUKE   DELMEGE 

In  a  solemn,  but  half-careless  manner,  as  if  he  had 
stumbled  on  a  chance  passage.  Father  Sheldon  read 
from  the  big,  brass-bound  Bible  :  — 

"  Michaeas  said  to  Achab,  King  of  Israel :  '  Hear  thou  the  word 
of  the  Lord.  I  saw  the  Lord  sitting  on  His  throne,  and  all  the 
army  of  heaven  standing  by  Him,  on  the  right  hand,  and  on  the 
left.'  And  the  Lord  said :  '  Who  shall  deceive  Achab,  King  of 
Israel,  that  he  may  go  up  and  fall  at  Ramoth-Galaad  V '  And  one 
spake  words  in  this  manner,  and  another  otherwise.  And  then 
came  forth  a  Spirit,  and  stood  before  the  Lord,  and  said  :  '  I  will 
deceive  him.'  And  the  Lord  said:  'By  what  means?'  And  he 
answered :  '  I  will  go  forth,  and  be  a  lying  spirit  in  the  mouth  of 
all  his  prophets.'  And  the  Lord  said  :  '  Thou  shalt  deceive  him, 
and  shalt  prevail :  go  forth  and  do  so.'  " 

The  Bishop  was  silent,  and  serious.  The  Vicar  shook 
all  over,  and  snorted  once  or  twice,  which  was  his  way 
of  laughing  boisterously.  A  young  priest  said  :  "  You 
haven't  brought  much  charity  out  of  the  retreat,  Father 
Sheldon  !  " 

Luke  said  :  "  There  is  no  use  in  talking  here ;  Father 
Sheldon  is  a  bronze  statue,  with  his  face  turned  to  the 
past !  " 

"  That's  all  right,  Delmege.  But  when  a  man  comes 
to  dress  and  drill  one  hundred  priests,  so  as  to  refit  them 
for  better  work  amongst  a  few  hundred  thousand  souls, 
and  when,  perhaps,  one  of  these  captains  is  himself 
trembling  in  the  balance,  we  expect  something  else 
besides  '  Sing  a  song  of  sixpence,'  and  '  Isn't  that  a 
dainty  dish  to  lay  before  the  king  ? '" 

You'd  like  to  see  a  portrait  of  Luke  Delmege  just  at 
this  time.      Well,  here  it  is  :  — 

"  11  Albemarle  Buildings,  Victoria  St.,  W.  C. 

"Dearest  Mother  :  —  I  went  up  for  my  first-half  a  week  ago, 
but  got  plucked.  The  questions  were  beastly.  MacKenzie,  an  old 
Scotchman,  who  lived  on  oatmeal  till  he  came  to  London,  and  now 
doesn't  know  himself,  was  my  chief  examiner.  He  asked  the 
most  absui'd  questions,  —  the  percentage  of  fibrin  in  the  blood, 
the  specific  difference  between  enteric  and  adynamic  fever,  the 
effect  of  hydrocyanic  acid,  etc.     I  was  thoroughly  made  up  in  sur- 


WEIGHING  ANCHOR  17^ 

gery,  for  -which  I  have  a  peculiar  taste,  yet  he  iievei-  asked  a  ques- 
tion, except  something  ridiculous  about  the  treatment  of  embolisms, 
and  I  could  have  given  him  lights  in  psychological  and  mental 
science,  where  I  am  A  1,  but  he  never  asked  a  question.  Then, 
he's  not  a  gentleman.  'Young  mon,'  said  this  red-headed  High- 
land savage,  '  I'd  recommend  you  to  qualify  as  a  hairdresser.  It  is 
a  branch  of  surgery,  ye  ken.'  I  have  reported  him  to  the  ti'ustees, 
and  demanded  a  second  examination.  Dr.  Calthrop  is  down  here, 
examining  in  bacteriology,  and,  pardon  the  pun.  lie's  backing  me 
up.  By  the  way,  tell  Barby  that  her  clerical  friend  is  coming  out. 
He  now  parts  his  hair  in  the  centre,  and  has  assumed  an  lonico- 
Doric  accent.  P)ut  I  must  say  he  preaches  well  and  effectively.  In 
fact,  he's  becoming  a  crack  lecturer  on  this  side.  I  cannot  compare 
him,  of  course,  with  the  Master  of  the  Temple,  for  there  will  be 
always  wanting  that  ei^prit  and  those  little  nuance.^  of  thought  and 
expression  that  denote  the  university  man.  But  he  is  strong  and 
versatile,  and  I  think,  when  he  gets  into  the  Attic  accent,  he  will 
do  fairly  well.  Just  tell  Pap  that  there  was  a  blunder  in  the  ex- 
amination programme,  and  I  am  going  up  again.  Perhaps  he  may 
write  to  Caltlirop,  wdio  is  a  power  here.  I'll  let  him  know  later 
on  about  MacKenzie,  and  he'll  probably  give  him  a  wigging.  Evi- 
dently, the  uncouth  fellow  didn't  know  who  I  was. 


"  Ever  affectionately, 

"  Louis  J.  Wilson,  B.A." 

One  of  the  effects  of  wliicli  epistle  was  tliis  :  — 

"  DuHLiN,  Sept.  8,  187—. 

"Rev.  Dear  Father:  —  I  must  write  to  tell  you  how  proud 
and  pleased  we  all  are  at  seeing  your  name  so  frequently  in  the 
Catholic  Times  and  Tahlcl,  and  in  so  honoured  a  way.  And  now 
comes  a  letter  from  Louis,  enthusiastically  souiuling  your  praises. 
I  should  give  extracts,  but  I  am  afraid  I  sliould  hurt  yon.  But  he 
is  a  great  admirer  of  yours,  and  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  our 
dear  Lord  has  created  this  reverence  and  admiration  in  order  that 
you  may  exercise  a  holy  controlling  influence  over  ]ioor  Louis  in 
the  midst  of  London  temptations.  I  am  supjwsing  that  you  have 
not  met  him  as  yet  in  Loiulon  ;  but  his  address  is:  11  Albemarle 
Buildings,  Victoria  Street,  London.  W.  C.  and  I  am  sure,  if  you  could 
spare  tiine  to  call  on  him,  he  would  be  highly  pleased  and  flattered 
by  your  condescension.  Do,  dear  Father!  It  is  a  iiuestion  of  a  soul 
and  its  future,  and  your  reward  will  be  exceeding  great.  Sophy 
Kennedy,  an  old  schoolmate  of  mine,  now  in  Kensington,  has  also 
written  "to  say  she  has  been  to  liear  you  ;  and  when  I  told  lier  you 
were  a  friend  of  mine   (this  was  presumi'tuous,  of  c(nirse)   she 


176  LUKE   DELMEGE 

actually  sent  me  congratulations,  and  doubted  if  I'd  acknowledge 
'  small  people  '  any  more. 

"  1  am  taking  up  too  much  of  your  valuable  time  with  my 
nonsense ;  but  our  next  letter  from  Louis  will  be  a  breath  from 
Paradise. 

"  I  am,  dear  Rev.  Father,  respectfully  yours, 

"Barbara  Wilson." 


"  A  pan  of  hot  coals  on  my  head  !  "  said  Luke.  "  I 
must  really  look  up  the  lad.  I  dare  say  he  has  forgotten 
our  little  rencontre.  Of  course,  he  felt  he  deserved 
richly  what  he  got." 

And,  accordingl}',  some  days  later,  he  again  crossed 
Westminster  Bridge,  and  found  his  way  to  Albemarle 
Buildings.  The  Buildings  were  laid  out  in  flats,  on 
the  French  system.  A  respectable,  middle-aged  woman 
kept  the  keys. 

"  No,  Mr.  Wilson  was  not  at  home  —  had  gone  to  the 
'ospital,"  she  supposed,  "  and  would  not  return  till  late. 
He  rarely  dined  at  'ome." 

Luke  was  turning  away,  not  too  disappointed,  for  he 
dreaded  the  interview,  although  prepared  to  be  very  con- 
ciliatory and  condescending,  when  the  woman  said  :  — 

"  I  perceive  you're  a  clergyman,  sir,  and  perhaps  a 
friend  of  this  young  gentleman." 

"  Well,  we  are  acquaintances  at  least,"  said  Luke, 
straining  at  the  truth,  "  and  I  am  much  interested  in 
him." 

"  Well,  then,  sir,"  she  said,  "  if  some  one  would  take 
him  in  'ands.  I  fear  he's  not  doing  well.  Would  you 
walk  upstairs,  sir  ?  " 

They  went  upstairs,  although  Luke  felt  that  he  was 
intruding  somewhat  unwarrantably  on  the  privacy  of 
another.  The  woman  unlocked  a  door  and  ushered  him 
into  an  apartment  filled  with  some  strange,  pungent, 
aromatic  odour,  such  as  hangs  around  a  druggist's  or 
perfumer's  shop.  There  was  chaos  everywhere.  Pipes 
of  all  shapes  and  forms,  pots  of  unguents,  masks  and 
wigs,  photographs,  some  quite  fresh,  some  faded,  of 
actresses  and  beauties.     There  were  two  side  by  side  in 


WEIGHING  ANCHOR  177 

a  frame.  One  was  subscribed  "  Circe "  ;  the  other, 
which  Luke  recognized  as  Barbara's,  was  simply  marked 
by  one  red  spot,  which  Luke  soon  discovered  was  a  heart 
on  hre.  Over  the  mantelpiece  hung  a  splendid  enlarged 
photograph  of  the  Canon,  and  in  the  frame  was  inserted 
a  shield  with  the  arms  of  the  Murray  family,  and  their 
motto.  Sans  tache. 

"  It  would  cost  me  my  situation,  sir,"  she  said,  "  if  it 
were  ever  known  that  I  brought  you  here  ;  but  I  am  a 
mother,  and  I  know  wot  it  is  to  see  the  young  go  astray. 
Has  this  young  gentleman  a  father  or  mother  ?  I  know 
he  has  a  sister,  for  every  post  brings  'im  a  letter  from 
'er.     He  never  mentions  his  j)arcnts." 

"  Yes.  I  understand  his  parents  are  living.  I  know 
little  of  them  ;  but  I  know  his  sister  and  their  uncle." 
He  pointed  to  the  })hotograpli. 

"  Well,  sir,  the  i)oor  young  gentleman  is  doing  badly. 
He  often  comes  'ome  hintoxicated,  has  picked  up  with 
a  dangerous  lot  —  " 

"•  Does  he  read  ?  "  queried  Luke,  looking  around  in 
vain  for  thick  folios  and  bones. 

''A  good  deal  of  these,"  she  said,  pointing  to  a  lieap 
of  tattered  novels.  "  But  these  are  the  real  dangers," 
—  she  pointed  to  the  photographs,  and  took  down  a 
phial   from  the  mant('lj)icee. 

"  He  can  take  all  that  in  a  day,'"  she  said,  pointing  to 
the  label,  "  enough  to  kill  ten  men.  And  he  won't  stand 
much  longer,  sir  ;  mark  my  words,  he  won't  stand  much 
longer,  unless  some  one  ste})s  in  to  save  him. 

'•  Vou  won't  see  him  sometimes  for  days  together," 
slie  continued.  ''I  knocks  and  knocks,  and,  thiid^s  I, 
we'll  lia\'e  a  erownei-'s  in(|uesi  here  soon.  And  then  he 
comes  out  a-shaking  all  over  like  a  lias[)en,  an'  his  laee 
a-shining  like  the  hangels.  lUit  it  ain't  liangels,  init 
devils,  he  has  seen." 

"  I'm  much  ol)liged  to  you  for  your  confidence,"  said 
Luke,  coming  downstairs.     "  1  must  see  to  it  at  once." 

"•  And  you  won't  mention  to  no  one  what  I  have 
showed  you?"  said  the  woman. 

N 


178  LUKE   DELMEGE 

"  Never  fear,"  said  Luke. 

"  A  pretty  bad  case  !  "  he  thought,  as  he  wended  his 
way  homewards  ;  "  a  pretty  bad  case.  I  must  write  to 
his  sister  or  uncle.  And  tliis  is  the  fellow  I  was  half- 
afraid  of  a  couple  of  years  ago  in  that  drawing-room. 
It  needs  travel  and  experience  to  know  the  world  after 
all,  and  to  know  that  there  are  few  in  it  that  are  not 
beneath  you." 

Which  shows  that  Luke  had  now  fully  adopted  the 
philosophy  of  one  of  his  Mentors,  and  was. holding  his 
head  —  very  high. 


t 


BOOK   III 


CHAPTER  XV 

AYLESBUKGH 

"  I  HAVE  been  thinking  of  making  some  changes  in 
the  Cathedral  staff,"  said  the  Bishop  to  the  Vicar  in  the 
library.  "•  I'm  not  too  well  satisfied  with  the  seminary, 
and  should  like  to  see  more  life  and  progress  there. 
Would  not  Father  Sheldon,  with  his  very  high  ideas 
about  the  priesthood,  be  an  admirable  guide  for  young 
students  ?  " 

'"'  Certainly,"  said  the  Vicar,  "  except  that,  like  myself, 
lie  speaks  too  plainly  sometimes." 

''  Very  true,"  said  the  Bishoj).  ''  There  would  be 
some  danger  there.     And  J  must  remove  Delmege  —  " 

"  Delmege  ?  "  said  the  Vicar,  quite  alarmed. 

"  Yes,  for  his  own  sake.  I  see  clearly  he  is  rather 
too  interested  in  the  platform  —  too  little  in  the 
pulpit." 

"  lie  speaks  well,  and  is  doing  excellent  work,"  said 
the  Vicar. 

•'  True  :  but  is  all  that  he  says  either  useful  or  edify- 
ing, do  you  think  ?  " 

'^  Weil,  he  does  rub  the  wrong  way  sometimes,"  said 
the  Vicar,  reluctantly. 

"I  had  been  thinking  of  speaking  to  him  seriously 
about  some  of  his  utterances,"  said  the  Bishop.  •• 'I'liat 
perj)etual  har[)iug  on  the  Kiiglish  schism  and  mi  Irish 
fidelity  does  not  exactly  i)lease  our  English  audience. 
'We  kept  the  Faith  in  Ireland  when,  at  the  dictation  of 
a  savage  king,  i/ou  Hung  aside  the  glorious  heritage,' 
does  not  soothe  the  British  mind." 

181 


182  LUKE   DELMEGE 

"  I  should  say  not,"  said  the  Vicar,  laughing.  "  But 
it  is  the  truth,  not  its  utterance,  that  is  painful." 

"  Then,"  said  the  Bishop,  resuming,  "  I  turned  over  a 
file  of  newspapers  the  other  day,  and  came  across  this 
singular  passage  in  one  of  his  lectures :  — 

"  The  English  mind  is  by  nature  antagonistic  to  Catholic  truth. 
It  was  not  Luther,  it  was  the  legend  of  '  Faust '  that  prepared  the 
way  for  the  Reformation.  The  world  was  tired  of  asceticism  and 
saints.  So  v/ere  the  English.  They  wanted  the  gods,  their  liberty, 
their  sensuality.  They  found  their  gods  in  such  satyrs  as  Luther 
and  Henry;  they  found  their  liberty  in  the  assertion  of  individual 
freedom ;  sensuality  followed.  And  if  all  England  were  Catholic 
again,  and  the  Pope  presumed  to  order  an  additional  fast-day,  you 
would  call  out  the  Reserves  and  mobilize  tlie  fleet  at  Spithead." 

"  Yes,  I  remember,"  said  the  Vicar,  laughing.  "  The 
fellow  has  the  knack  of  putting  the  truth  unpleasantly. 
I  remonstrated  with  him.  '  Is  it  true  or  false  ? '  he 
said.  '  Perhaps  true,'  I  replied.  '  Then  why  not  tell 
it  ? '  he  said.  He  can't  understand  that  it  is  not  always 
desirable  to  advance  unnecessary  truths." 

"  He  wants  experience,"  said  the  Bishop.  "  I  was 
going  to  say  'correction.'  But,  you  know,  these  fire- 
eating  Irishmen  won't  take  correction.  Then  I  thousrht 
of  sending  him  to  Whitstable.  But  that  is  too  great  a 
responsibility  —  " 

"  I  shall  miss  him  greatly,"  said  the  Vicar.  "  He  is  a 
fine,  manly  young  priest ;  hits  straight  from  the  shoul- 
der, and  is  undoubtedly  a  clever  fellow.  What  a  pity 
these  high-blooded  natives  won't  bear  the  bit  !  " 

"Then  I  thought  of  Aylesburgh,"  said  the  Bishop. 
"  I  could  bring  up  old  Collins  here.  But  would  Drys- 
dale  be  able  to  control  this  young  enthusiast  ?  " 

"  I  think  so.  Delmege,  the  moment  he  recognizes 
the  sanctity  of  his  pastor,  will  be  as  wax  in  his  hands." 

"  Be  it  so,  then,"  said  the  Bishop. 

"  I  shall  miss  him  sadly,"  said  the  Vicar,  with  some- 
thing that  seemed  like  a  sob.  "  No  doubt,  we  are  a 
leaden  lot." 

The  following  Sunday  evening  there  was  an  impor- 


AYLESBURGH  183 

tant  function  in  the    Cathedral.     The  Bishop  was   to 
assist  in  Cappa  magna.     Luke  was  to  preach. 

All  were  assembled  in  the  inner  sacristy  just  before 
the  ceremony  commenced.  Luke  was  slightly  nervous. 
It  was  the  first  time  he  had  to  preach  in  the  Bishop's 
presence,  and,  say  what  you  please,  it  is  an  ordeal  to 
speak  before  an  accom})lished  preacher,  who  also  holds 
the  keys  of  life  and  death. 

"  Would  you  assist  the  Bishop  ?  "  said  Arthur,  who 
was  master  of  ceremonies,  "whilst  I  look  after  the 
altar." 

Luke  moved  forward  and  took  up  the  Cappa  magna. 
Now,  the  Cappa  magna  is  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the 
beautiful  vestments  with  which  Mother  Church,  in  her 
great  love,  clothes  her  children.  I  cannot  conceive  how 
any  lesser  genius  than  that  of  Michael  Angelo  could 
have  devised  it.  A  judge's  ermine  is  nowhere  in  com- 
parison, and  even  the  coronation  robes  of  royalty  pale 
into  insignificance  before  it.  But,  like  all  beautiful 
things  in  Nature  and  art,  it  must  be  handled  with 
science  and  skill  and  delicacy.  You  succeed  by  a  liair's 
breadth,  and  it  is  a  success.  You  fail  by  a  most  tri- 
fling misdirection,  and  it  is  a  consummate  and  irre- 
mediable failure.  Now  Luke  had  neither  science  — 
because  he  knew  nothing  about  this  airy,  fluffy,  deli- 
cate thing  ;  nor  skill  —  because  he  had  never  touched 
it  before  ;  nor  delicacy  —  for  his  strong,  muscular  fin- 
gers had  not  yet  tapered  into  sensitive,  nervous  points. 
But  he  had  all  the  confidence  of  inexperience.  He  took 
up  the  beautiful  silk  and  ermine  in  his  arms,  and  tossed 
it  lightly  over  the  Bishop's  head.  The  Bishop  shouted  : 
"Take  care!  "  But  it  was  too  late.  The  Bisho])  found 
that  the  long,  shining  masses  of  crimson  silk  hung  like 
a  curtain  l)efore  him. 

"  You  have  put  it  on  wrongly,"'  he  said  angrily. 

Luke  tried  to  remedy  the  blunder  by  shifting  the 
ermine  around.  It  refused  to  be  shifted.  Luke  was 
as  crimson  as  the  silk.  Me  pulled  and  shifted  and 
tugged. 


184  LUKE   DELMEGE 

"Take  it  off,"  said  the  Bishop. 

More  easily  said  than  done.  Luke  lifted  it,  and  then 
found  the  Bishop's  head  hopelessly  entangled  in  the 
mighty  mazes  of  tlie  silken  net.  Then  came  a  series  of 
objurgations  and  apologies  accompanying  the  tremen- 
dous conflict,  whilst  every  moment  seemed  to  involve 
the  Bishop  more  hopelessly  in  the  silken  intricacy.  The 
brethren  moved  not.  There  was  a  faint  sound  as  of  a 
titter  ;  but  no  !  British  equanimity  and  self-poise 
were  proof  against  the  temptation,  and  no  one  stirred 
from  his  statuesque  position  to  help  the  struggling  ag- 
onists. It  was  too  good  to  terminate  or  interrupt. 
They  enjoyed  it  in  British  fashion  by  looking  at  one 
another.  Just  then  the  master  of  ceremonies  came  in. 
He  ran  his  hands  into  the  pockets  of  his  soutane,  looked 
around  calmly,  and  said  aloud  :  "  Well,  I'm  blessed  !  " 
Then,  moving  forward,  he  pushed  Luke  gently  aside 
with  "  Allow  me  !  "  and,  putting  his  arms  under  the 
tangled  silk  and  ermine,  he  gently  lifted  it,  turned  it 
around,  kicked  back  the  long,  shining  train,  and  it  was 
done.  Then  he  ordered  all  forward,  and  Luke,  with 
burning  face  and  tingling  nerves,  took  his  place  in  the 
procession.  He  found  it  difficult  to  compose  himself 
during  Vespers,  and  forgot  all  about  his  sermon  in  the 
painful  retrospect,  until  Arthur  bowed  to  him,  and  took 
him  over  to  receive  the  episcopal  blessing.  The  Bishop 
saw  his  embarrassment,  and  showed,  as  only  a  Bishop 
can,  some  invisible  and  intangible  kindness.  Then 
Luke  was  in  the  pulpit.  He  stammered  through  his 
text  ;  then  recovered  himself,  and  spoke  the  first  four 
sentences  of  his  sermon  well.  His  clear,  metallic  voice 
tolled  slowly  through  the  great  overcrowded  building, 
searching  into  every  corner,  as  he  leaned  on  every  syl- 
lable and  accented  every  final  consonant.  Then,  in  an 
unhappy  moment,  his  memory  reverted  to  his  little 
gaucheries  in  the  sacristy,  and,  as  the  shame  came  back, 
he  forgot  the  trend  of  his  discourse  and  began  to  floun- 
der through  some  dreary  platitudes.  But  pride  came 
to  his  relief,  and  his  heart  began  to  pump  blood  into  his 


AYLESBURGH  185 

brain,  until  all  the  faculties  fortified  took  up  their  work 
again,  and  the  paralysis  ceased,  and  the  faithful  and  pliant 
instrument  obeyed  the  soul ;  and  without  blunder  or  flaw, 
the  beautiful  discourse  flowed  on  to  the  end,  and  men 
drew  breath  and  said  *'  It  was  good  !  "  After  Benedic- 
tion, and  before  divesting  himself  even  of  his  biretta, 
the  Bishop  came  over,  shook  Luke  warmly  by  the  hand, 
and  said  :  — 

"  I  have  rarely  heard  anything  so  beautiful  and 
practical  !  "  whicii,  from  a  Briton,  meant  a  good 
deal. 

Next  day  Luke  was  in  his  library.  The  spirit  of 
work  had  now  seized  him  and  possessed  him,  until  he 
felt  work,  work,  work,  was  the  elixir  of  life.  He  had 
now  determined  to  plunge  deeper  than  ever  into  his 
slums,  and  to  drag  out  of  their  horrors  the  souls  that 
were  festering  there.  For  this  purpose  he  had  drawn 
up  a  large  map,  showing  every  street,  lane,  alley,  and 
court  in  his  district,  and  was  just  giving  the  finishing 
touches  to  an  aristocratic  and  classical  spot,  called 

Granby  Court,  Granby  Lane,  off  Spittal  Alley, 

when  the  door  opened  and  the  Bishop  entered. 

"  At  work,  Delmege  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  Lord  !  " 

"  What  would  you  think  of  going  to  Aylesburgh  ?  " 

"Ay  —  ay  —  Aylesburgh?"  stanunered  Luke. 

"  Yes  ;  I  am  sending  you  on  to  Drysdale.  He  is  a 
brusque  Briton,  but  a  good  felhnv.  You'll  like  him. 
When  could  you  be  ready  '.'' "' 

"  ()h  !  at  any  time  your  Lordship  pleases,"  said  Luke, 
somewhat  nettled,  and  thinking  this  might  mean  a  fort- 
night's notice. 

""•  Well,  it's  just  now  three.  There's  a  train  at  half- 
past  four.     Could  you  meet  it?" 

Then  the  whole  thing  burst  on  Luke's  mind,  and  he 
said,  stiffly,  as  he  rose:  "If  your  Lordship  jjleases  !  " 
—  and  passed  out  of  the  room. 

Whilst  he  was  engaged  in  packing  his  few  books  and 


186  LUKE   DELMEGE 

clothes,  a  timid  knock  was  heard,  and  Father  Sheldon 
came  in. 

"  What's  up  ?  "  he  cried  in  amazement. 

Luke  turned  away. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Delmege  ?  Where  are  you  go- 
ing ?  "  said  Father  Sheldon,  quite  alarmed. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Luke,  turning  around.  "  Look 
here,  Sheldon,  you  are  all  the  same— a  pack  of  hypo- 
crites. I  tried  to  believe  otherwise ;  but  now  my  turn 
has  come." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Father  Sheldon. 
"Are  you  going  back  to  Ireland?" 

"  I  wish  I  were,"  said  Luke,  bitterly.  "  Only  that  I 
have  engaged  myself  for  seven  years,  1  should  go  back 
by  the  first  train." 

"But,  for  heaven's  sake,  man,  what  is  it  all  about?" 

"  It's  all  about  this  —  that  I'm  ordered  off  to  Ayles- 
burgh  at  an  hour's  notice,  as  if  I  had  the  plague.  Of 
course  I  should  have  expected  it.  The  moment  a  young 
Irishman  makes  himself  useful,  or  —  or  —  a  —  remark- 
able, that  moment  lie's  shifted  to  some  obscure  place." 

"  There  may  be  some  reason,"  said  Father  Sheldon, 
diffidently. 

"  Of  course  there  is.  The  universal  reason  of  jeal- 
ousy. I  shouldn't  mind  so  much,  but  the  good  I^xshop 
was  kind  and  —  hypocritical  enough  to  pay  a  marked 
compliment  last  night,  and  tlien — " 

"  I'm  extremely  sorry,"  said  Fatlier  Sheldon,  moodily. 

"  There's  more  Saxon  duplicity,"  said  Luke,  bitterly. 
"  I'm  quite  sure  there's  not  one  in  tlie  house  who  is  half 
so  glad  as  you  are  —  " 

"  Be  it  so,"  said  Father  Sheldon,  going  out. 

As  Luke  passed  down  the  corridor,  he  stopped  for  a 
moment  at  the  Vicar's  door  and  timidly  knocked. 

"  Come  in !  "  said  the  gruff,  well-known  voice. 

"  I'm  going,"  said  Luke,  briefly. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  the  old  man.  "  There's  a  quarter 
due." 

"  I'm  sorry  for  leaving  you,  sir,"  said  Luke,  with  a 


AYLESBURGH  187 

gulp;    "you  have  been  very  kind,  and   I  couldn't  go 
away  without  saying  good-bye  !  " 

The  Vicar  was  writing.  He  folded  the  paper  in  an 
envelope,  and  handed  it  to  Luke. 

"  Good-bye,  Delmege,"  he  said.     That  was  all. 

"  All  alike,"  thought  Luke.  "  Made  out  of  putty  and 
then  frozen." 

It  was  a  week  before  he  opened  the  envelope.  Instead 
of  £7  10s.,  the  quarter's  salary,  the  check  was  written 
for  X15. 

A  two  hours'  run  brought  the  sad  and  disappointed 
Luke  to  his  new  home.  He  drove  rapidly  to  the  pres- 
bytery. The  rector  was  not  at  home.  The  housekeeper 
left  his  lugg'^ge  in  the  hall,  and  did  not  even  show  him 
his  room.  He  went  out  to  see  the  church,  muttering 
"brusoue  and  British  enough  !  "  The  little  church  was 
very  dark,  and  the  air  was  redolent  with  incense.  He 
caid  a  little  prayer,  and  looked  around,  trying  to  imagine 
his  congregation. 

"Somewhat  '""iffercnt  from  the  Cathedral,"  he  thought. 
"  I  shall  not  hiive  to  raise  my  voice  here."  He  went 
behind  the  choir  screen,  and  examined  the  nuisic.  He 
then  studied.,  the  brass  tr.blets  on  the  benches,  with  tlie 
names  oi  the  pow-proprietors.  There  was  no  "  Lord," 
not  even  a  "Sir." 

"The  Canon  would  be  disappointed,"  lie  M'hispered. 
He  meant  hiniLielf,  though  lie  did  not  know  it.  He 
started  at  some  names.  They  were  connected  with  art 
and  literature.  "  I  must  mind  my  P's  and  Q's  here," 
he  whispered.  "  Let  me  see."  He  went  up  to  the  })re- 
della  of  the  altar,  and  looked  around,  casting  his  voice 
in  lmarinc<,tion  ui)  to  the  stained  Crucifixion  that  li<Tlited 
the  front  gallery.  "'Twill  do,"  he  said.  He  meant 
"I'll  do."  He  examined  the  cards  in  the  pews  again. 
"'The  Misses  Pardoe !  ' "  he  said.  "I  wonder  who 
are  these.  '  Frilulein  von  Essler;  '  'Mademoiselle  Dcs- 
hayes  ; '  rather  cosmopolitan.  '  Jeremiah  O'Connor.' 
Hallo,  Jeremiah  ! 

'Quae  regio  in  terris,  iiostri  non  plena  laboris?' 


188  LUKE   DELMEGE 

'Arthur  Henry  Halleck  ! '  Can  this  be  the  Nineteenth 
Century  reviewer?  After  all,  I  shall  have  some  one  to 
speak  to.'' 

Just  then  a  visitor  arrived  in  the  shape  of  a  great 
brown  shaggy  retriever,  rin^;eJ  all  over  with  bronze 
curk.  Gravely  and  sedately  he  moved  up  the  aisle, 
until  he  reached  to  where  Luke  was  standing  watching 
him.  He  then  as  gravely  lifted  his  right  paw,  which 
Luke  instantly  grasped. 

"  Good-day,  old  fellow,"  he  said ;  "  you're  the  first  to 
welcome  me.  I'd  swear  you  are  an  Irishman."  So 
they  passed  into  the  presbytery  again.  This  time  the 
rector  was  at  home.  He  rushed  out,  a  fussy  little  man, 
his  gray  hairs  all  tossed  awr}^  fussil}^  shook  hands  with 
Luke.  "You,  Delmege?"  —  took  up  the  hat-box,  bade 
Luke  take  the  portmanteau  —  '•  Come  along  to  your 
room ;  you'll  have  to  rough  it  here,  you  know.  There  ! 
A  place  for  your  books,  bed,  chair,  table.  You'll  have 
some  tea  ?  " 

"  At  the  usual  time,"  said  Luke,  coldly=  He  thought 
there  was  hardly  sufficient  recognition  of  his  dignity. 
Then  he  sat  down  and  looked,  around  sadly.  It  was 
not  a  prepossessing  kind  of  room.  It  was  very  large, 
with  a  very  low  ceiling,  worm-eaten  boards,  pretty  large 
rat-holes  in  the  corner,  cupooards  where  ghosts  might 
hide  —  altogether  a  rambling,  antique,  haunted,  myste- 
rious kind  of  room,  such  as  you  might  see  in  ancient 
castles,  long  since  disused.  One  thing  redeemed  its 
darkness  and  general  mustiness.  There  was  a  noble 
window,  opening  on  a  tiny  plot  of  "rass,  and  command- 
ing an  extensive  view  of  a  high,  brown,  bare  wall,  which 
Luke  soon  found  was  the  northern  gable  of  a  hideous 
Wesleyan  conventicle.  For  hence  in  the  long  summer 
twilights,  and  the  long  winter  nights,  did  Luke  often 
hear  the  dismal  wailings  of  Calvinistic  hymns,  droned 
out  by  raucous  male  voices  or  the  shrill  trebles  of  women, 
and  the  eternal  burden  was  :  — 

Oh !  let  us  be  joyful,  joyful,  joyful, 
When  we  meet  to  part  uo  more ! 


AYLESBURGH  189 

But  there  was  one  hymn,  rcdole:it  of  Calvinism  and  dis- 
cord, which  was  sung  morning,  noon,  and  night  in  this 
dreary  conventicle.  It  haunted  Luke  like  a  spectre, 
and  he  confessed  that,  to  the  very  end  of  his  life,  it 
sent  his  heart  into  Lis  boots.  It  was  all  about  being 
saved  I  saved  !  !  saved  ;  !  ! 

"If  these  be  the  pa?r.ns  of  the  elect,"  thought  Luke, 
"  I  wonder  on  what  unimaginable  minor  key  are  pitched 
the  wailings  of  the  lost !  " 

It  was  his  first  introduction  to  the  gloom  and  desola- 
tion of  the  English  religion. 

"  And  these  are  the  peojile  who,  through  their  writers, 
through  Dickens  and  Arnold  and  the  host  of  globe-trot- 
ting cynics,  try  to  turn  into  ridicule  the  sweet,  sunny 
religion  of  Italy  and  Spain  !  But  they  produced  a  Faber, 
Luke.     Well,  that  saves  tliem  somewhat." 

There  was  a  short  service  and  Benediction  in  Thurs- 
day evening,  at  wliich,  to  Luke's  surprise,  there  was  a 
very  large  attendance.  And  hero  ho  noticed  that  almost 
invisi])le  but  terrible  line  of  demarcation,  that  in  all  Eng- 
lish churches  separates  the  imperialiGta  from  the  helots. 
The  front  l)en(hes  were  sparsely  filled  with  well-dressed, 
stately  Englisli  ;  the  last  two  benches  were  well  filled 
with  poorly  dressed  Irish,  whose  very  attitude  was  an 
apology.  And  Ijack  in  the  gloom  of  the  jiorch,  hidden 
in  the  shadows  of  the  confessionals,  the  exiles  thronged, 
and  swayed  to  and  fro,  and  flung  out  their  arms  in  adora- 
tion, and  shook  •'.heir  beads,  as  long  ago  on  the  mud  floors 
and  whitewashed  cabins  in  the  Iri;h  bills.  Luke  couldn't 
stand  it. 

"  Stand  up,  and  go  on  to  those  vacant  seats,"  he  said 
peremptoril}'. 

"  God  bless  your  reverence  ;  but  we'd  rather  be  here." 
And  there  tliey  remained. 

li  was  his  iirst  little  rencontre  with  his  pastor.  He 
referred,  in  not  very  measured  terms,  to  this  heretical 
exclusiveness  in  tlie  House  of  the  Great  Father. 

"  There  should  be  no  distinction  of  class  here,  as  there 
shall  be  none  on  the  Day  of  Judgment.     And,  from  my 


190  LUKE   DELMEGE 

experience  of  England,  Doctor,  I  tell  you  that  the  one 
secret  of  the  Church  is  this:  Preserve  what  you  have 
got  and  develop  it;  don't  waste  your  energies  in  fishing 
in  barren  waters." 

"  Your  experience?  "  said  Dr.  Drysdale,  mildly  and 
apologetically.  "  You've  been  a  good  many  years  in 
the  country?  " 

"  Two  years  and  six  months,"  stammered  Luke,  blush- 
ing at  his  own  conceit. 

"  (_)h  !  I  nearly  agree  with  you,  my  young  friend," 
continued  the  rector  ;  "  but  there  are  practical  diffi- 
culties, which,  perhaps,  at  some  future  time,  you,  too, 
may  be  invited  to  solve.  For  example,  did  it  occur  to 
you  that  there  is  a  heretical  gas  company  that  insists 
on  being  paid  every  quarter ;  and  a  heretical  corpora- 
tion that  demands  rates  ;  and  an  organist  who,  though 
not  a  heretic,  wants  bread  and  butter ;  and  a  sacristan 
who,  though  an  excellent  Catholic,  must  be  fed  as  be- 
comes a  l>riton ;  and  last,  not  least,  a  most  estimable 
young  Irish  confrere  who,  perhaps,  too  —  but,  perhaps, 
I'm  wrouCT  ?  —  Can  it  be  that  our  idealistic  brethren 
across  the  Channel  live,  in  a  balloon-like  way.  on  fresh 
air?" 

"  Ye  have  left  them  precious  little  else  to  live  on," 
said  Luke,  who  was  half  angry,  half  amused. 

Neveiih -less,  his  training  had  already  habituated 
him  to  common  sense,  and  he  rather  admired  the 
rector. 

Luke  preached  on  Sunday  evening  after  Compline. 
Luke  preached  well.  He  did  not  anticipate  a  very  dis- 
tinguished or  appreciative  audience,  and  his  nerves  were 
calm  under  the  indifference.  But  when  his  practised 
eye  detected  quite  an  aristocratic  and  educated  audi- 
ence, he  pulled  himself  together,  and  directed  his  train 
of  thought  in  the  channels  that  might  suit  them. 

"■  I  dare  say  they  have  heard  of  me,"  the  dear  little 
idol  whispered,  "  and  expect  something.  I  must  not 
disappoint  them." 

And  here  let  it  be  said  that  in  these  two  years  and  a 


AYLESBURGH  191 

half  Luke  had  picked  out  of  reviews  and  pamphlets  more 
theological  information  than  he  had  acquired  in  his  four 
years'  divinity  course.  And  now  he  had  to  study  more 
closely,  and  address  his  studies  to  special  subjects,  be- 
cause he  found,  in  a  few  weeks,  that  he  was  now  ad- 
dressing not  only  a  congregation  of  converts,  but  that, 
every  Sunday  evening,  his  audience  was  largely  com- 
posed of  Protestants  of  every  shape  and  hue,  from  the 
eager  solicitor,  or  doctor,  or  banker,  down  to  the  dra- 
goon from  the  cavalry  barracks,  who,  during  the  dis- 
course, sliced  oranges  for  his  best  girl.  This  latter 
episode,  indeed,  rather  disturbed  Luke's  equanimity  at 
first,  and  his  Celtic  temper  brought  him  perilously  near 
an  explosion  ;  but  he  became  accustomed  to  the  unin- 
tentional irreverence,  and,  after  a  few  Sundays,  ceased 
to  notice  it. 

Then  he  found  that,  on  Monday  morning  or  Tuesday, 
a  Baptist,  or  Socinian,  or  Unitarian  would  claim  an 
interview  with  the  object  of  controverting  some  state- 
ment in  the  sermon  ot"  the  previous  evening  ;  and  Luke 
became  suddenly  aware  that  there  was  a  good  deal  to 
be  studied  and  considered  before  he  could  break  through 
the  crust  of  self-opinion  that  gathers  round  the  right  of 
private  judgment. 

But  we  are  anticipating.  On  the  first  Sunday  even- 
ing, when  Luke  entered  the  presbytery,  expecting  to 
receive  the  congratulations  of  his  rector,  he  was  sur- 
prised to  find  the  little  parlour  full  of  })arishioners. 
Three  or  four  families  were  represented,  from  father, 
grave  and  solemn,  and  mother,  smiling  and  happy,  down 
to  grown  maidens  and  youths  with  great  l)lack  eyes  and 
pale  faces,  and  even  litth^  children,  w  ho  looked  up  boldly 
and  in((niringly  at  the  new  assistant .  There  was  a  little 
amicable  ri\  airy  amongst  them,  and  the  quesiion  was  — 
who  was  to  secure  this  clever,  handsome,  voung  Irishman 
as  guest  for  the  evening. 

"Now.  Mr.  (lodfrey,  you  are  always  monop(~>li'/.ing  our 
priests.  There  was  no  such  thing  as  getting  Father 
Collins  to  come  to  us." 


192  LUKE   DELMEGE 

"  Oh  !  dear,  dear  !  and  we  used  to  say  that  Father 
Collins  lived  at  the  Hermitage." 

"  Now,  Mr.  Godfrey,  we  really  must  make  a  rule  that 
will  not  be  infringed  upon.  We  must  have  Mr.  Del  — 
Del—" 

"  Delraege,"  said  Luke,  smiling  happily  at  this  battle 
in  his  honour. 

"  We  must  have  Mr.  Delmege  every  Sunday  evening, 
and  on  alternate  Thursdays." 

'•'  Really,  ^Irs.  Bluett,  you  are  most  grasping  and  in- 
tolerant.    I  appeal  to  the  Doctor." 

The  Doctor  was  tossing  up  the  long  ringlets  of  a  little 
maiden  of  five  summers,  and  here  looked  up. 

"  I'm  sure,"  he  said,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  ''  I 
shan't  interfere.  If  you  could  manage  to  divide  him, 
as  Solomon  intended  with  the  baby,  it  would  be  all  the 
better." 

Mr.  Godfrey,  however,  bore  away  the  prize  trium- 
phantly. Luke  had  sense  enough  to  whisper  to  his 
rector  :   "  Shall  I  go  ?  " 

"  By  all  means.  But  don't  stay  later  than  ten. 
They'll  like  you  all  the  better." 

And  this  was  Luke's  first  introduction  to  a  good  pas- 
tor, whom  ever  after  he  regarded  as  the  greatest  and 
dearest  of  the  "  dii  majores"  who  were  enshrined  in  the 
secret  temple  of  honoured  friendship,  and  to  the  circle 
of  the  gentlest  and  sweetest  people  that  he  had  yet  or 
ever  known.  It  is  quite  true,  indeed,  that  he  had  some 
academic  discussions  from  time  to  time  with  his  pastor, 
generally  on  political  topics,  but  these,  too,  were  tacitly 
avoided  after  a  while.  And  for  a  time  he  was  embar- 
rassed and  puzzled  at  the  idiosyncrasies  of  English 
life.  He  couldn't  manage  cold  roast  beef  and  cheese 
and  ale  at  eight  o'clock  at  night  ;  and  old  John  Godfrey 
was  considerate  enough  always,  when  placing  his  hand 
on  the  cover  of  the  Stilton,  to  shout  :  "  Look  out.  Father 
Delmege !  "  So,  too,  he  found  it  hard  to  understand 
how  grave  men  of  forty  or  fifty  could  spend  hours  over 
a  stupid  game  of  dominoes,  with  nothing  but  counters 


AYLESBURGH  193 

in  the  pool ;  and  he  thought  whist  insufferable.  Some- 
times, too,  he  fidgeted  in  his  chair  as  he  sat  around  a 
winter's  fire,  and  a  calm,  Carthusian  silence  pervaded 
the  whole  family  circle. 

"  Isn't  this  enjoyable.  Father  Delmege  ?  "  John  God- 
frey would  say,  taking  the  long  clay  from  his  mouth 
and  exhaling  a  mighty  cloud. 

"Very,"  Luke  woidd  answer,  adding  in  his  own 
mind,  "  not  quite  as  bad  as  a  jail,  but  a  great  deal  worse 
than  a  college." 

But  he  got  used  to  it,  and  his  nerves  were  gradually 
toned  down  into  the  silky  smoothness  that  reigned 
everywhere  around  him.  And  he  began  to  see  great 
deeps  of  affection  and  love  far  down  beneath  the  icy 
surface  ;  and  every  day  he  was  made  aware  of  genuine 
kindness,  gentle,  undemonstrative,  unobtrusive,  until 
he  grew  to  love  these  grave,  pleasant  people,  and  they 
loved  him  in  turn. 

"Bah  !"  he  used  to  say  angrily  to  himself  sometimes, 
"  there's  only  a  sheet  of  tissue-paper  between  the  two 
races,  but  politicians  and  journalists  have  daubed  it  all 
over  with  the  visions  of  demoniacs.  When  will  the 
great  man  arise  to  drive  his  fist  through  the  obstruction 
and  let  the  two  jieoples  see  each  other  as  they  are  ?  " 

And  the  great,  white-haired  Canon  at  home  besfan  to 
rise  steadil}'  in  his  esteem,  and  Lisnalee  became  more 
shadowy  and  cloudy  than  ever. 

Luke  would  not  sing  "  The  Muster  "  now. 

"I  really  must  write  to  Sheldon,"  he  said.  "  I  treated 
him  badly.  I  am  almost  tempted  to  write  the  Bishop 
to  thank  hira.     But  I'll  express  it  later  on." 


CHAPTER   XVI 

ENCHANTMENT 

The  Canon  sat  in  his  favourite  arm-chair  in  his  rectory 
at  home.  The  morning  sun  streamed  in,  and  made  a 
glory  of  his  white  hair,  as  of  an  Alp  in  the  sunlight. 
The  Canon  was  happy.  And  he  was  happy  because  he 
had  not  yet  attained  everything  he  could  desire.  For, 
you  know,  the  unhappy  man  is  he  who,  like  poor 
Herder,  has  got  everything  that  even  Shakspere  offers 
to  old  age,  and  has  nothing  to  look  forward  to  this  side 
the  grave.  There  were  some  things  yet  to  be  desired, 
to  be  reached  unto,  to  be  seized,  —  to  be  enjoyed  ?  No  ! 
The  enjoyment  is  the  pursuit  ;  it  ceases  when  the  hand 
closes  down  on  the  prize.  And  yet,  with  every  conso- 
lation around  him,  and  that  most  sublime  of  consolations, 
the  growing  happiness  of  his  people,  forever  under  his 
eyes,  there  were  some  misgivings  —  the  rift  in  the  lute, 
the  fly  in  the  amber,  which  are  inseparable  from  all 
kinds  of  human  felicity.  A  letter  lay  open  on  the 
table.  It  was  a  pathetic  letter,  and,  more  pathetic  still, 
it  contained  a  poem.  This  the  Canon  read  over  and 
over,  and  the  tears  were  in  his  eyes.  Yet  the  Canon 
was  happy,  for  he  was  a  good  man,  and  he  had  the 
power  of  relieving  misery  always  within  his  reach. 
Indeed,  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  which  was  the 
happier  —  the  benevolent  Canon,  who  presented  some 
poor  woman  with  a  brace  of  Orpingtons,  with  the 
assurance  that  she  would  have  a  glorious  "  cluck  "  in 
the  springtime,  or  the  poor  woman  who  was  just  about 
to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  proprietorship.  And  when  he 
had  got  thirty  per  cent,  knocked  off  the  rents  of  his 

194 


ENCHANTMENT  195 

tenantry,  he  walked  on  air  for  several  days  afterwards. 
So  the  Canon  was  happy,  for  he  was  writing  a  check  for 
ten  pounds  this  morning,  and  the  check  was  made  pay- 
able to  Louis  Wilson.     The  old  fool  I  says  some  one. 

Not  at  all  !  You'd  do  the  same  yourself,  my  indig- 
nant friend,  if  you  had  a  little  account  at  your  banker's, 
and  if  you  chanced  to  have  these  lines  addressed  to 
you  :  — 

lie  stood  afar,  as  one  without  a  God, 

Waiting  in  darkness  for  the  deeper  night, 

AVhen  sleep  would  come  —  the  long  and  soulless  sleep, 

That  seemed  to  him  more  peaceful  than  the  hope 

Of  future  immortality. 

In  the  silence  of  that  solemn  midnight  hour. 
While  calmly  slept  the  world,  and  stars  kept  watch. 
And  the  land  was  flooded  with  the  moon's  weird  light, 
And  the  heavens  and  the  earth  were  steeped  in  beauty, 
He  laid  him  down  thus  wretchedly. 

And  a  ray  of  moonlight  glittered  on  the  blade. 
That  leaped  with  deathly  swiftness  to  his  heart; 
And  the  stars  looked  down  in  pity  as  he  sank 
With  closed  eyes,  among  the  sleeping  flowers, 
To  rest  forever  peacefully. 

The  Canon  was  not  a  critic ;  nor  had  he  an  ear  for 
music,  or  a  finical  respect  for  accents  and  syllables.  He 
had  only  an  imagination.  And  he  saw  the  moonlight, 
and  the  sleeping  tlowin-s,  and  the  crushed  grass,  and 
the  blade  with  the  dark  stain  —  ugli  I  and  the  Canon 
wept  with  pity,  and  debated  wilh  liimself  long  and 
earnestly  whether  lie  would  not  eliange  that  check  and 
write  fil'ty.  I)Ut  the  cbeck  was  posted  to  No.  11  Albe- 
marle Buildings  ;  and  the  good  liousekeeper,  whose  rent 
had  fallen  into  sad  arrears,  chuckled  as  she  guessed  : 
''A  check  from  his  huncle  !  "'  But  the  Canon  went 
around  these  days  in  an  anxious  and  happy  mood,  fearful 
that  every  post  would  bring  him  an  account  of  a  coroner's 
inciuest.  But  to  all  outward  appearanee  he  was  the 
same  grand,  majestic  Canon,  and  the  people  said  :  "  How 
great  antl  how  happy!" 

During    these    happy   months,    Luke    Delmege    was 


196  LUKE  DELMEGE 

floated  along  in  a  current  of  calm  peaceful  work,  broken 
only  by  the  innocent  pleasures  of  refined  and  beautiful 
social  surroundings.  He  had  time  to  think  at  last, 
though  he  never  ceased  to  work.  And  one  of  his 
thoughts  was  this  :  This  fever  and  fret  of  work,  work, 
work  —  What  is  it  all  for  ?  What  is  the  object  of  it  ? 
The  answer  was  :  Work  needs  no  object  but  itself, 
because  work  is  its  own  reward.  There  was  something 
in  it,  but  it  was  not  quite  satisfactory  ;  for,  in  that  case, 
an  immortal  being  had  no  higher  object  in  life  than  a 
steam-engine.  He  proposed  the  question  often  to  him- 
self ;  and  he  proposed  it  at  a  happ}^  gathering  at  a  cer- 
tain house,  which  had  gradually  become  his  salon  and 
academy.  Here  invariably  once  a  week,  sometimes 
twice  or  thrice  a  week,  Luke  had  the  inestimable  privi- 
lege of  meeting  a  small,  select  coterie  of  esoterics, 
representative  of  every  branch  of  literature,  science,  and 
art,  and  even  divinity.  For  here  came  many  soft- 
mannered,  polite,  well-read  Anglican  clergymen,  who 
stepped  over  from  their  snug,  if  dingy,  houses  in  the 
Cathedral  close,  and  brought  with  the  man  atmosphere 
of  learning  and  refinement  and  gentle  courtesy,  which 
had  a  perceptible  effect  on  the  character  and  manner 
of  this  young  Hibernian.  And  here,  mostly  on  Wednes- 
day evenings,  were  gathered  celebrities,  who  slipped 
down  from  London  by  an  afternoon  train  and  went 
back  at  midnight  ;  and  Luke  began  to  learn  that  there 
were  in  the  world  a  few  who  might  be  masters  and 
teachers  forever  to  a  First- of- First.  And  Luke  grew 
humble,  and  began  to  sit  at  the  feet  of  some  Gamaliel, 
and  his  quarter's  salary  was  spent  long  before  he  had 
received  it  in  buying  books,  the  very  names  of  which  he 
had  never  heard  before.  And  with  his  plastic  Irish 
nature,  he  had  begun  to  fit  in  and  adapt  himself  to 
these  new  environments,  and  even  his  dress  bespoke  a 
change.  And  he  studied,  as  carefully  as  a  novice  in  a 
monastery,  to  subdue  the  riotous  and  impassioned  ele- 
ments of  his  nature,  and  to  become  as  silky  and  soft 
and  smooth  as  those  with  whom  he  associated- 


ENCHANTMENT  197 

But  he  proposed  the  question  to  Amiel  Lefevril,  one 
of  the  three  maiden  sisters  who  presided  over  the  salon, 
and  who  had  lieard  a  good  deal  from  Catholic  friends 
about  this  new  light,  which  had  suddenly  dawned  from 
Ireland  on  the  gray  monotony  of  a  dull  English  cathe- 
dral town.  And  it  came  around  in  this  way.  The 
lady  had  got  a  letter  from  the  great  Master  of  Balliol, 
who  had  just  finished  his  work  on  the  Republic  of  Plato, 
and  one  sentence  ran  thus  :  — 

"  You  have  endless  work  to  do  in  your  own  si^here ;  and  you 
must  finish  that,  and  not  fancy  that  life  is  receding  from  you.  I 
always  mean  to  cherish  the  illusion,  which  is  not  an  illusion,  that 
the  last  years  of  life  are  the  most  valuable  and  important,  and 
every  year  I  shall  try  in  some  way  or  other  to  do  more  than  in  the 
year  before." 

"  You  see,"  continued  Amiel,  "  these  are  the  words 
of  an  old  man, — a  great  old  man;  and  how  applicable 
to  you,  before  whom  the  years  are  spreading  in  a  long, 
sunlit  vista." 

"But — but,"  said  Luke,  with  the  old  sic-argumen- 
taris  style,  but  now,  oh  !  so  modified,  "life  must  have 
an  object.  There  must  be  an  ideal  —  an  object  to 
attain." 

''  Distini/uo  !  "  said  the  lady,  and  Luke  almost  jumped 
from  his  chair  at  the  old  familiar  word.  "  If  you  are 
selfish  and  self-centred  you  need  no  other  object  than 
the  tonic  of  daily  work  to  strengthen  and  purify  every 
mental  and  moral  faculty.  But  there  is  a  higher  plane 
to  which  you  will  reach,  and  where  you  become  divinely 
altruistic.  That  is,  when  you  acknowledge  and  un- 
derstand that  the  crown  of  life  is  self-surrender,  and 
when  the  interest  of  the  individual  is  absorbed  in  the 
interests  of  the  race." 

It  sounded  sweetly,  and  wrapped  Luke's  senses 
around  as  with  an  atmosphere  of  music  and  perfume  ; 
but  his  judgment  was  not  convinced. 

"  I  thought  I  heard  some  one  enlarge  a  few  nights  ago 
—  yes,  indeed,  it  was  Canon  ^lellish — on  the  woi'ld- 
weariness  of  all  our  great  writers  and  workers  —  on  the 


198  LUKE   DELMEGE 

dread  despair  of  Arnold  of  Rugby  and  Matthew  Arnold 
—  on  the  justification  of  suicide  by  George  Eliot,  and 
the  wish  that  it  could  be  justified  by  Carlyle." 

"  Quite  so,"  answered  Amiel.  "  The  necessary  result 
of  too  great  enthusiasm  —  the  reaction  from  the  Schivdr- 
merei  towards  ashes  and  weeping.  But,  brother,  you 
were  unhappy  in  your  illustrations.  Those  bright  lights 
whom  you  mention  burned  for  themselves  only,  leaving 
smoke  and  darkness  behind  them.  You  and  we  must 
seek  better  things." 

"  I  cannot  quite  grasp  it,"  said  Luke,  vainly  stretch- 
ing towards  the  insoluble.  "  I  see  some  great  idea 
underlying  your  thesis,  but  I  cannot  seize  it." 

"  Then  1  must  take  you  by  the  hand,  and  lead  you 
into  the  inner  circle  of  the  mystics.  You  know,  of 
course,  that  all  great  thinkers  now  understand  the 
nature  of  Life's  symbolism  —  that  the  whole  world  of 
experience  is  but  the  appearance  or  vesture  of  the 
divine  idea  or  life,  and  that  he  alone  has  true  life  who 
is  willing  to  resign  his  own  personality  in  the  service  of 
humanity,  and  who  tries  unceasingly  to  work  out  this 
ideal  that  gives  the  only  nobility  and  grandeur  to 
human  action  —  that  is  :  — 

Seek  God  in  Manl 
not 

Man  in  God, 

which  latter  has  been  the  great  human  heresy  from  the 
beginning." 

It  sounded  nice,  and  it  gave  Luke  a  good  deal  of  food 
for  reflection.  This  self-surrender,  this  absorption  in 
the  race,  the  Bt/o  lost  in  tlie  All,  and  immortal  in  the 
eternity  of  Being  —  this  is  the  very  thing  he  souglit 
for ;  and  was  it  not  the  thing  the  martyrs  sought  for  — 
the  high- water  mark  of  Catholicism  ?  He  ventured  to 
hint  vaguely  at  the  matter  to  his  rector,  who  rubbed  his 
chin  and  seemed  to  smile,  and  said:  — 

"  I  think,  Father  Delmege,  you  had  better  keep  to 


ENCHANTMENT  199 

John    Godfrey  and  his    pipe,  and   leave  these  Anglo- 
French  blue-stockings  alone." 

Luke  pronounced  the  old  man  reactionary. 

"However,"  said  Dr.  Drysdale,  "you  want  work  for 
humanity.  All  right.  I'll  hand  you  over  the  county 
jail.  You  will  meet  some  pretty  specimens  of  humanity 
there." 

"  'Tis  all  this  horrible  mechanism,"  said  Luke  ;  "  these 
English  cannot  get  over  it.  Man  is  only  a  tiny  crank 
in  the  huge  machine  —  that's  all  the}^  can  conceive. 
How  different  this  teaching  —  Man,  a  Symbol  of  the 
Divine!  " 

Yet  the  beautiful,  smooth  mechanism  w^as  affecting 
Luke  unconsciously.  He  no  longer  heard  the  whir  and 
jar  of  machinery,  or  saw  the  mighty  monster  flinging 
out  its  refuse  of  slime  and  filth  in  the  alleys  and  courts 
of  southwest  London  ;  but  the  same  smooth  regularity, 
the  same  quiet,  invincible  energy,  was  manifest  even  here 
in  the  sleepy  cathedral  town.  Here  was  the  beautiful 
tajiestry,  pushed  out  from  the  horrid  jaws  of  the  great 
mill ;  beautiful,  pei-fect,  with  all  fair  colours  of  cultured 
men  and  stately  women,  and  woven  through  with  gold 
and  crimson  threads  of  art  and  science  and  literature. 
And  Luke  felt  the  glamoui-  \\ra})ping  liini  around  with 
an  atmosphere  of  song  and  light,  and  he  felt  it  a  duty 
to  Ht  himself  to  his  environments.  He  was  helped  a 
good  deal. 

"  Quick,  (juick,  quick.  Father  Delmege  ;  you're  two 
minutes  late  this  morning.  These  people  won't  wait, 
you  know." 

Luke  felt  his  pastor  was  right;  but  he  could  not  help 
thinking:  God  be  with  Old  Ireland,  wdiere  the  neigh- 
bouis  meet  leisurely  for  a seanachus on  Sunday  morning, 
and  sit  on  the  tondtstones  and  talk  of  old  times!  And 
no  one  minds  the  priest  being  half  an  hour  late  ;  nor 
does  he,  for  he  salutes  them  all  affably  as  he  passes  into 
the  sacristy,  and  they  say  "  God  bless  your  reverence  !  " 

Or  :  "  Look  here,  look  here,  look  here.  Father  Del- 
mege ;    now   look  at  that   corporal!     There  you  have 


200  LUKE   DELMEGE 

not  observed  the  folds,  and  it  must  be  all  made  upk 


again. 


Or  :  "  Could  3^ou  manage,  Father  Delmege,  to  modu- 
late your  voice  a  little  ?    This  is  not  the  Cathedral,  and 

some  of  those  ladies  are  nervous.    I  saw  Mrs.  S start 

and  look  pained  whilst  you  were  preaching  yesterday. 
It  was  like  an  electric  shock." 

"  God  be  with  Old  Ireland,"  thought  Luke,  "  where 
the  people's  nerves  are  all  right,  and  where  they  meas- 
ure your  preaching  powers  by  the  volume  of  sound  you 
can  emit." 

But  he  did  tone  down  his  voice,  until  it  became  a 
clear,  metallic  tingling,  as  of  sled-bells  on  a  frosty  night. 

They  had  long,  amiable  discussions  on  theology  during 
the  winter  evenings  after  dinner.  In  the  beginning, 
indeed,  Luke  would  break  out  occasionally  into  a  kind 
of  mild  hysterics,  when  the  grave,  polite  old  man  would 
venture  a  contradiction  on  some  theological  question. 
Luke  did  not  like  to  be  contradicted.    Had  he  not  studied 

under at  college  ?    And  had  he  not  experienced  that 

the  right  \ray  to  discomfit  an  antagonist  is  to  laugh  at 
him,  or  tell  him  he  is  quite  absurd  ?  But  the  gravity  of 
this  dear  old  man,  his  quiet,  gentle  persistence,  began  to 
have  an  effect  on  Luke's  vanity,  and  gradually  he  came 
to  understand  that  there  are  a  good  many  ways  of  look- 
ing at  the  same  thing  in  this  queer  world,  and  that  it  were 
well  indeed  to  be  a  little  humble  and  tolerant  of  others' 
opinions.  For  the  truth  forced  itself  on  Luke's  mind 
that  this  old  man,  although  he  never  studied  in  the  hal- 
lowed halls  of  his  own  college,  was,  in  very  deed,  a  pro- 
found theologian,  and  when  Luke,  later  on,  discovered 
quite  accidentally  that  this  gentle  man  was  actually  the 
author  of  certain  very  remarkable  philosophical  papers 
in  the  Dublin  Meview,  and  that  his  opinions  were  quoted 
in  the  leading  Continental  reviews,  he  was  surprised, 
and  thought  —  who  could  ever  believe  it  ? 

This  idea  of  toleration  Luke  was  slow  in  grasping. 
He  had  such  a  clear,  logical  faculty  that  he  could  see 
but  one  side  of  a  question,  and  was  quite  impatient  be- 


ENCHANTMENT  201 

cause  others  could  not  see  it  in  the  same  manner.  There 
is  reason  to  fear  that  at  his  first  conference  he  was  posi- 
tively rude.  He  had  a  good  deal  of  contempt  for  Eno-- 
lish  conferences.  It  was  fencing  with  painted  laths 
instead  of  the  mighty  sword-play  that  goes  on  in  Ireland. 
One  brief  case  about  Bertha  and  Sylvester,  who  had  got 
into  some  hopeless  entanglement  about  property,  etc., 
and  that  was  all.  Now,  all  the  other  priests  calmly  gave 
their  opinions;  but  Luke  should  blurt  out  impatiently:  — 

"  That's  not  what  ive  were  taught,  and  no  theologian 
of  eminence  holds  that."' 

Canon  Drysdale  rubbed  his  chin,  and  said:  — 

"  I  had  some  correspondence  with  Palmieri  on  the 
matter.  Would  my  young  friend  do  us  the  favour  of 
reading  his  reply  ?  " 

And  Luke,  angry  and  blushing,  read  his  own  refu- 
tation. 

But  the  beautiful  lessons  of  toleration  and  mildness 
and  self-restraint  were  telling  insensibly  on  his  character. 

One  evening  at  the  salon  he  ventured  even  to  ask 
questions.  A  grave,  elderly  man  had  been  saying  that 
he  had  just  visited  Bunsen  in  Germany,  and  that  Bunsen 
was  a  grand,  colossal  heathen. 

"•  Did  you,"  said  Luke,  shyly,  "  did  you  ever  come 
across  Wegscheider  in  Germany  ?  " 

"  Weg  —  Weg  —  no,  I  cannot  remember.  Let  me 
see  —  Weimar,  Wieland,  Wein,  Weib,  Weg  —  could  he 
be  anything  to  old  Silas  ?  "  said  the  traveller,  gravely. 

''  No  !  "  said  Luke,  a  little  nettled.  "  He  was  only  a 
theologian  ;  but  he  was  heterodox,  and  I  thouglit  you 
might  have  met  him."  This  was  really  good  for  Luke. 
He  was  getting  gently  into  the  ways  of  polite  society. 

"I  think,"  he  whispered  to  an  Anglican  parson,  who 
was  always  extremely  kind,  "  that  Wegscheider  was  a 
Sabellian." 

"  What's  that  ?  "  said  the  parson. 

"  Oh  !  I  thought  you  knew  all  about  heretics,"  re- 
plied Luke. 


202  LUKE   DELMEGE 

"  A  pretty  compliment,"  said  the  Anglican.  "  No,  I 
never  heard  the  word,  except  flung  occasionally  at  a 
Bishop  as  a  nickname  by  one  of  our  papers." 

Later  on  in  the  evening  Luke  startled  a  little  circle 
who  were  gravely  enlarging  on  the  evolution  of  the  race, 
and  conjecturing  the  tremendous  possibilities  that  lay 
before  it. 

"  Considering  what  has  been  done,"  said  Olivette 
Lefevril,  "  and  how  we  have  gi;own  from  very  humble 
origins  into  what  we  are  to-day,"  —  she  looked  around 
and  into  a  large  mirror  and  arranged  a  stray  curl,  — 
"  there  is  no,  absolutely  no,  limit  to  the  developments 
of  humanity.  Something  higher,  and  something  even 
approaching  to  the  anthropomorphic  conceptions  of  the 
Deity  is  even  realizable." 

••'  There  is  not  much  hope  for  it,"  said  a  belligerent 
journalist,  "-  so  long  as  the  nations  are  at  one  another's 
throat  for  a  trifle  ;  and  so  long  as  gentlemen  in  morn- 
ing dress  in  their  comfortable  cabinets  can  get  the  un- 
happy proletariat  to  blow  each  othei  to  atoms  for  their 
amusement." 

"Ah  !  but  war,"  said  Clotilde,  "war,  dreadful  as  it 
is,  is  but  the  sifting  and  selection  of  the  strongest  and 
the  best.  Nations  emerge  from  war  and  renew  their 
strength  as  the  eagle's." 

"  And  see,"  said  a  blue-spectacled  lady,  "  how  we  have 
eliminated  mendicancy  from  our  midst.  A  mendicant 
is  as  extinct  as  a  dodo." 

"  I  should  give  all  the  world  to  see  a  beggar  !  "  broke 
in  Luke,  rashly. 

"  A  beggar  !  a  real,  live  beggar,  with  rags  and  things?  " 
broke  in  the  chorus  of  the  startled  multitude. 

"  Yes,"  said  Luke,  confidently,  "  a  real,  live,  leprous 
beggar  — a  very  Lazarus  of  sores,  if  only  to  help  us  to 
recall  some  things  we  read  of  in  Scripture." 

"Ah!  but  my  dear  Mr.  Delmege,  you  quite  forget 
that  all  this  took  place  in  Syria  and  in  the  close  of  the 
ancient  cycle.  This  is  England,  and  the  nineteenth 
century." 


ENCHANTMENT  20S 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Luke,  appealing  to  a  Canon,  "  but 
what  says  the  Scripture  —  '  Tlie  poor  you  shall  always 
have  with  you '  !  " 

"  What,  then,  becomes  of  the  evolution  of  religion  ?  " 
shrieked  a  lady.  "If  there  is  to  be  no  progress,  where 
comes  in  your  Christianity  ?  " 

"  I  think,"  said  the  senior  Canon,  "  that  Mr.  Delmege 
is  right  and  wrong,  —  right  in  his  interpretation  ;  wrong 
in  his  application.  The  text  he  has  quoted  means  : 
'  Blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit,  for  theirs  is  the  King- 
dom of  Heaven.' " 

"  Of  course.  And  that  embraces  us  all,"  said  Oli- 
vette. "  I'm  sure,  now,  that  sometimes  I  feel  quite  em- 
barrassed by  these  accessories  of  civilization.  Can  we 
not  do,  I  say  sometimes  to  myself,  with  less  ?  Are  not 
these  ornaments  of  life  unnecessary  and  a  burden  ?  I 
sometimes  feel,  that,  like  dear  St.  Francis,  I  should  like 
to  go  abroad  and  —  and —  see  the  world." 

"■  How  could  you  get  on  without  your  easel  and 
brushes  and  palettes?"  said  Clotilde.  Olivette  was 
the  artist  of  the  family. 

"  Oh  !  I  should  hire  a  little  Italian  boy  to  take  them 
for  me,  and  we  could  spend  days  on  the  Umbrian  Moun- 
tains, and  paint,  oh  !  such  delicious  bits  of  scenery,  and 
eat  nothing  but  olives  and  grapes,  and  drink  only  water 
—  snow-water  from  the  fountain-peaks  of  the  Apennines, 
and  —  and  —  a  little  Falernian." 

"And  then,  dear,"  said  Clotilde,  "you  could  go  down 
into  the  convents,  and  copy  those  dear  crucifixions  of 
Angelico,  and  the  sweet  '  Eece  Homo's';  and  oh! 
Olive,  if  you  could  bring  me  back  one  —  only  one  copy 
of  that  divine  '  Scourging,'  by  Corti !  " 

Olivette  slmddered,  and  said  coldly  :  — 

"  No  !  no  !  our  Heine  has  stop[)ed  all  that.  No  more 
painful  realism,  like  the  visions  of  Emmerich;  but 
sweet-faced  Agneses,  and  Cecilias,  and  perhaps,  now  and 
again,  a  divine  Juno,  or  the  flower-face  of  an  Oread." 

So  Luke's  little  observation  drew  down  tliis  admira- 
ble discussion  on  Scripture,  political  economy,  art,  etc.. 


204  LUKE   DELMEGE 

and  Luke  felt  not  a  little  elated  as  the  giver  of  inspira- 
tion and  the  originator  of  ideas.  Dear  me  !  to  think 
that  he,  the  child  of  an  Irish  farmer,  should  be  not  only 
a  member,  but  even  a  leader,  in  this  select  coterie  in 
the  centre  of  British  civilization  !  And  Carlyle  took 
years  to  make  the  British  public  forget  that  he  was  the 
son  of  a  Scotch  mason  !  Luke  was  floating  on  the 
enchanted  river. 

He  was  accompanied  to  the  door  by  the  sisters. 

"  I  really  think  I  shall  paint  your  picturesque  beg- 
gar," said  Olivette. 

"  No,  no,  dear,  don't  spoil  your  art-fancies,"  said  Clo- 
tilde.     ''  What  would  the  '  Master '  say  ?  " 

Luke  felt  half-jealous  of  that  "Master." 

"  If  you  could  spare  time,"  he  said,  "  I  should  like 
much  to  have  a  picture  of  that  ship  in  the  'Ancient 
Mariner'  —  the  sea  smooth  as  glass,  the  sun  setting, 
and  her  skeleton  spars  making  a  scaffolding  against  the 
daffodil  sky  !  " 

"  You  shall  have  it,"  said  Olivette. 

"  Good-night,  brother  !    Don't  forget  the  Atta  Troll !  " 

"  Good-night,  brother  !  " 

"  Brother,  good-night !     The  Laches  for  Thursday  !  " 

"  Bah,"  said  Luke  ;  "  there's  only  a  sheet  of  tissue- 
paper  between  the  races ;  but  politicians  and  pamphlet- 
eers have  daubed  it  all  over  with  ghouls  and  demons 
on  both  sides.  When  will  the  valiant  knight  come  and 
drive  his  lance  through  it,  and  let  the  races  see  each 
other  as  they  are  ?  " 

It  was  close  on  midnight  when  Luke  reached  the 
presbytery.  A  light  was  burning  in  Dr.  Drysdale's 
room.  Luke  went  softly  upstairs.  The  old  man  was 
at  the  door  of  his  bedroom. 

"  I  must  say.  Father  Delmege,  that  you  are  keeping 
of  late  most  unseasonable  hours  —  " 

"  I  was  detained  by  some  gentlemen  from  London," 
stammered  Luke.  "  It  appears  that  midnight  is  con- 
sidered quite  early  in  London." 


ENCHANTMENT  205 

"This  is  not  London.  This  is  Aylesburgh.  There 
is  a  parcel  and  some  letters  in  the  dining-room.'' 

Luke  went  downstairs.  He  was  chilled  and  depressed 
at  this  reproof.  He  eagerly  opened  the  parcel.  He 
had  ordered  from  a  bookseller  on  the  Strand  a  pretty 
fair  collection  —  Goethe's  Wilhelm  3Ieuter,  Comte's 
Catechism  of  Positivism,  Mill  on  Liberty,  Herbert  Spencer 
on  Fro;iress  and  Education^  etc.  Instead  of  the  bright, 
spruce  volumes  he  had  expected,  he  found  four  dingy, 
clammy  duodecimos.  Turning  to  the  gas-jet,  he  read 
the  almost  obliterated  words  on  the  back  :  — 

"BREVIARIUM   ROAIANUM:   PARS   AESTIVA." 

"Who  has  offered  me  this  insult?"  he  said.  "I 
suppose  Sheldon,  who  is  so  much  concerned  about  my 
eternal  salvation." 

He  tore  open  the  first  letter.  It  was  from  Father 
Sheldon,  and  ran  thus  :  — 

"My  dear  Delmege  :  —  A  [Miss  Wilson,  from  Ireland,  called 
here  to-day  to  inquire  lor  you.  She  said  you  were  deeply  interested 
in  her  brother,  Louis,  a  youni]^  medical  student,  at  St.  Thomas's. 
She  had  not  iieard  of  your  removal  to  Aylesburgh,  and  seemed  dis- 
appointed. She  has  come  over  to  act  as  housekeeper  and  guardian 
angel  to  her  brother.  From  our  brief  conversation  I  could  gather 
that  she  is  eminently  qualitied  for  both  offices.  I  don't  despair  of 
the  Island  of  Saints  yet.  I  think  there's  one  left.  She  wished  that 
I  should  enclose  to  you  their  address." 


The  second  letter  ran  :  — 

'■Mv  DEAR  Luke:  —  We  expect  you  over  without  fail  fi)r  your 
sister's  wedding.  Your  protracted  exile  is  causing  some  anxiety 
here.  It  is  pn^liable,  as  you  have  already  heard,  that  Margery  will 
enter  in  Limerick.  You  know  that  poor  Father  Tim  has  gone  to 
meet  his  brother,  Ecclesiastes,  in  Heaven.  He  left  you  his  Brevi- 
aries and  a  parting  word  —  to  hold  your  head  high  1 

"  Yours  affectionately. 

"Martin  IIlghes,  P.P. 
" Seaview  Cottage,  KnockuHinif." 

Luke  took  up  the  Rreviaries  rather  gingerly.  The 
cover  had  been  originally  of  red  morocco ;  but  the  years 


206  LUKE  DELMEGE 

had  wrought  havoc  with  red  and  gold.  They  were 
black,  grimy,  clammy,  from  constant  use ;  for  then,  as 
now,  the  Breviary  is  the  poetical  anthology,  the  manual 
of  philosophy,  the  compendium  of  theology  and  patrol- 
ogy  to  the  Irish  priest.  Luke  put  down  the  volumes 
with  a  shudder,  and  then  washed  his  hands. 


m 


CHAPTER   XVII 
A   LAST   APHORISM 

'TwAS  true,  indeed.  Father  Tim  was  dead.  He  had 
carried  his  little  stock  of  wisdom,  and  merged  it  in  the 
great  supernal  Wisdom  that  guides,  oh  !  so  unerringly, 
yet  imperceptibly,  the  little  currents  of  our  lives. 
There  never  was  a  man  so  proud  of  his  philosophy  as 
Father  Tim  ;  never  a  man  who  knew  so  little  of  the 
world.  His  happy  consciousness  of  the  former  faculty, 
his  liappy  unconsciousness  of  the  latter  defect,  or  bless- 
ing, made  him  a  most  lovable  man. 

During  this  s})ring  the  influenza,  then  quite  an  un- 
pleasant novelty,  was  raging  in  his  jjarish  ;  and  ]iight 
and  day  he  swept  the  mountains  from  cabin  to  cabin  on 
his  little  cob.  Then  when  tlie  epidemic  had  ceased  and 
the  flock  was  saved,  the  pastor  was  struck  down,  and 
fatally. 

Father  Martin  was  beside  liimself  w  ith  grief.  Father 
Pat  was  too  seientilic  to  be  oversolicitous  about  his 
friend.  IJut  he  did  all  that  a  scientist  could  do;  and 
wonderfid  were  the  pharmaceutical  remedies  that  he 
prestu'ibed.     Alas  !   Father  Tim  was  a  fatalist. 

''  When  a  man's  time  comes,  where \s  the  use  in  jiut- 
tinof  back  the  hands  on  the  clock?"  he  said.  There 
was  no  possible  reply  to  this. 

And  so,  one  evening  in  March  of  ihis  sad  year, 
Father  Martin  made  up  his  mind  to  discharge  consci- 
entiously his  duty  as  a  friend  and  brother  priest,  antl 
warn  his  good  neiglibour  that  the  sands  were  running- 
fast,  and  it  was  high  time  to  prepare  for  the  last  great 
journey. 

207 


208  LUKE   DELMEGE 

"  Of  course,  Martin,"  said  the  poor  patient,  feebly, 
"  it  is  a  long  road,  and  there's  no  turning  back  when 
you  start.  But  there  are  no  cross-roads  either,  Martin, 
where  a  man  could  lose  his  way." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Father  Martin.  "  Now  we'll  see 
about  the  spirituals  first,  and  then  the  temporals." 

The  ceremony  did  not  take  long,  and  then  he  made 
his  profession  of  faith. 

"It  isn't  faith,  Martil,"  he  sobbed,  "wdth  me,  but 
bision,  thalk  God." 

"  That's  true,  Tim,"  said  Martin,  deeply  affected. 
"  I'm  sure  the  Blessed  Virgin  herself  will  come  for 
you." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  "  said  the  dying  man,  "  no  wonder  she 
should  —  no  wonder  she  should  !  She'll  be  very  un- 
grateful, and  that's  not  her  way,  you  know,  if  she 
doesn't  be  standing  there  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  when 
the  light  is  going  out." 

"  And  you're  quite  sure  you're  not  afraid  to  die  ?  " 

"  Afraid  ?  Afraid  of  what,  man  ?  No  !  '  Better 
soon  than  sudden,'  said  I ;  and  it  is  something  to  go 
before  God  with  your  senses  about  you." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Martin,  gravely.  "  Now,  about 
your  will.      Where  is  it  ?  " 

"There  in  the  cupboard,  such  as  it  is,"  said  the 
patient. 

Father  Martin  went  over,  and  after  some  careful 
searching  amongst  old  receipts  and  rubbish,  he  found 
the  will.  It  was  written  on  a  sheet  of  notepaper,  and 
ran  thus  :  — 

"In  the  name  of  God,  Amen. 

"I,  Timothy  Hurley,  make  this  my  last  will  and  testament.  I 
leave  my  dear  friends,  Father  Martin  Hughes  and  Father  Pat 
Casey,  fifty  pounds  each  for  Masses  for  my  soul,  to  be  said  at  once. 
Bis  dat  qui  cito  dat.  I  leave  my  successor  fifty  pounds  for  the  poor 
of  the  parish.  Dispersit,  dedit  pauperihus.  I  leave  the  Reverend 
Mother  of  the  Presentation  Convent,  I.,imerick,  one  hundred  pounds 
for  the  children  of  the  convent  schools.  Sinite  parviilos  ad  me 
venire.  I  leave  the  Superioress  of  the  Good  Shepherd,  Limerick, 
one  hundred  pounds  for  her  poor  penitents.     Erravi  sicut  ovis  quce 


1 


A   LAST   APHORISM  209 

periit.  I  leave  my  parish,  with  the  Bishop's  consent,  to  Father  Pat 
Casey,  because  he's  a  silent  man,  and  knows  how  to  consume  his 
own  smoke.  And  my  Breviary  I  leave  to  Fatlier  Luke  Dehnege, 
with  the  parting  advice  :  Hold  your  head  high,  and  always  put  a 
good  valuation  on  yourself!  My  soul  I  leave  to  Almighty  God 
and  His  Blessed  Mother,  for  they  have  the  best  right  to  it. 

Signed:  "Timothy  Hurley, 

"  Parish  Priest  of  Gortnagoshel." 

Father  Martin  read  the  document  without  a  smile. 
Then  — 

"  There  are  a  good  many  legacies  here,  Tim.  Now, 
where's  all  the  wealth  lodged?" 

"  Wealth  ?  What  for  ?  I  haven't  a  penny,  except 
you  find  some  loose  silver  on  the  mantelpiece." 

"  But  you  have  bequeathed  in  this  will  nearly,  let  me 
see,  over  ,£350.  Why  did  you  make  such  a  will  if  you 
have  nothing,  as  I  suspected  ?  " 

"  But  didn't  the  Bishop  order  us,  under  pain  of  sus- 
pension, to  make  our  wills  in  three  months  from  the 
retreat  ?  "  said  Father  Tim,  struggling  with  the  fading 
breath. 

'•'  Of  course.  But  that  supposed  you  had  something 
to  leave.  You  have  been  very  generous  with  nothing, 
lim. 

"■  Well,  I  thought  sure  that  a  full  measure  is  better 
than  an  empty  sack.  And  sure,  if  there's  nothing  there, 
they  can  get  nothing." 

'■'■  Pat  and  I  will  take  care  of  the  Masses,  whatever," 
said  Father  Martin. 

""God  V)less  you,  Martin.     I  knew  you  would." 

"  Fm  afraid,  Tim,  the  Bishop  will  hardly  admit  that 
you  have  the  right  of  presentation  to  your  parish." 

"  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Martin,  I  never  thought 
he  would.  But  he's  fond  of  a  joke  ;  and  I  said  to  my- 
self :  '•  Well,  now,  Tim,  when  his  Lordshii)  hears  this, 
he'll  clap  his  hands  and  say,  that's  a  goocl  joke,  and  1 
won't  balk  him.' " 

"Ah  !  but  that  preaching,"  said  Martin. 

"Look  here,  now,  Martin,  there's  too  much  preach- 
ing altogether.     If  there's  anything  Fm  sorry  for,  it  is 


210  LUKE   DELMEGE 

that  I  talked  too  much.  Sure,  'tisn't  the  Avater  that 
runs  down  the  river  that  turns  the  mill,  but  the  water 
that's  caught  in  the  mill-race." 

"  That's  true,  Tim,"  said  Martin  ;  "  but  bishops  want 
men  to  preach  ;  and  if  you  remember  your  Selva,  you 
know  that  it  is  laid  down  as  the  first  duty  of  a  parish 
priest." 

"And  you  think  the  Bishop  won't  heed  the  joke?" 
said  Father  Tim,  faintly. 

"  I  fear  not,"  said  Father  Martin.  "  He  has  been 
very  hard  on  poor  Pat  for  that  same  thing." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  during  which  the  breath  of 
the  dying  priest  came  only  in  gasps  and  sobs.  Then 
for  a  moment  it  became  easier. 

"  Martin.'" 

"Yes,  Tim." 

"  Martil,  I'b  goib  to  leave  you  somethib,"  said  the 
poor  priest,  with  a  sob. 

"  I  wouldn't  doubt  you,  Tim,"  said  Father  Martin. 

"Martil,  we  were  always  goob  friends." 

"Always,  Tim." 

"Martil." 

"Yes,  Tim." 

"  rb  goib  to  leab  you  Tiny." 

Here  Martin  became  quite  as  affected  as  his  friend. 

"  I  won't  take  her,  but  on  one  condition,"  he  said. 

"  What  is  it,  Martil  ?  " 

"That  you  throw  Tony  into  the  bargain." 

"  Gob  bless  you,  Martil  !  I  knew  I  coulb  depenb  ob 
you." 

Here  it  may  be  remarked  that  Tiny  and  Tony  had 
been  baptized  in  a  Christian  manner  and  with  Christian 
names.  They  were  the  children  of  a  young  medical 
doctor  who  had  come  down  to  Gortnagoshel,  and  after 
a  desperate  fight  had  secured  a  dispensary  worth  XlOO 
a  year.  When  he  had  secured  this  prize,  almost  at  the 
cost  of  his  life,  he  won  himself  another  prize,  this  time 
a  real  one,  in  the  shape  of  a  young  wife,  brought  up 
in  a  Dublin  hot-house  of  luxury  and  ease,  and  suddenly 


A   LAST   APHORISM  211 

transferred  to  this  Libya  by  the  seashore.  But  tliey 
were  very  haj^py  together,  and  very  much  happier  when 
Christina  was  baptized  on  Christmas  Day  ;  and  a  year 
later  when  Antony  was  placed  under  the  direct  patron- 
age of  his  mother's  favourite  saint.  For  she  had  a  great 
devotion  to  St.  Antony,  and  always  sealed  her  dainty 
letters  with  the  mysterious  S.A.G.  Then  one  day  tlie 
cloud  came  down.  The  young  doctor  took  typhus 
fever  in  a  mountain  cabin  and  died.  And  the  young 
mother  could  not  be  kept  back  from  him  even  by  the 
exceeding  love  she  bore  her  children  ;  but  slie,  too, 
sickened  and  died.  And  on  that  lonely  evening,  when 
her  soul  was  straining  between  God  and  her  bairns,  it 
was  Father  Tim  that  let  loose  that  sweet  spirit  for  God 
by  taking  on  himself  the  duty  of  father  and  protector 
of  the  motherless  ones. 

"  Sure  'tis  as  easy  to  fill  two  mouths  as  one,"  he  said  ; 
and  they  came  home  with  him  and  grew  into  his  soft 
and  affectionate  heart. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Martin,"  said  the  faint  voice  ; 
"you're  doing  too  much  ;   but  God  will  bless  you." 

''  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Tim,"  said  Martin,  '*  Fll  take 
the  cliiklren  home  now,  and  come  to  see  3'ou  again." 

"Gob  bless  you,  Martil,"  said  the  grateful  heart  in 
its  sobbing. 

Easier  said  than  done,  though,  to  borrow  an  aphorism. 
Tiny  and  Tony  were  done  u})  by  the  housekee[)er  and 
brought  in  in  solemn  state.  Tiny  was  gorgeous  in  pink 
and  white.  Tony  was  almost  supercilious.  He  had 
assumed  the  tor/a  virilis,  and,  1)y  natural  instinct,  had 
his  hands  phmged  dce[)  in  his  pockets.  He  looked 
curiously  from  Martin  to  his  guardian,  and  almost 
shouted  with  joy  when  he  was  told  to  say  good-bye,  for 
he  was  hencefortli  to  live  and  lodge  at  Seaview  Cottage. 
Not  so  Tiny.  When  she  was  jjlaced  liigh  up  on  tlie  pil- 
low to  kiss  good-bye  to  her  guardian,  she  sobbed  and 
wept  and  pleaded. 

"Come  now.  Tiny,"  said  Father  Martin,  "and  we'll 
go  home  together." 


212  LUKE   DELMEGE 

"  Noa,  noa,  noa,  noa,  noa,"  sobbed  Tiny,  with  her 
arms  around  her  guardian's  neck.  Who  said  "ia 
donna  e  mobile  "  f 

"  Martil,"  said  Father  Tim,  sobbing  with  the  child. 

"  Yes,  Tim,"  said  Martin. 

"I  dilk  ril  keeb  Tiny  until  —  until  'tis  all  ober,"  said 
Father  Tim. 

"  All  right,  old  man,"  said  Martin.  "  Fll  be  back  in 
a  few  minutes.     Come,  Tony,  old  boy  !  " 

A  few  minutes  drew  on  to  a  few  hours,  and  when 
Father  Martin  returned  it  was  clear  that  the  end  was 
at  hand. 

"  Martin,"  said  the  dying  man,  feebly. 

"  Yes,  Tim." 

"  Do  you  think  will  that  omadhaun,  Daly,  be  at  my 
Requiem  ?  " 

"  Very  probably,  Tim.  Every  man  in  the  diocese 
will  be  there." 

"Could  you  keep  him  out  of  the  choir?"  said  Father 
Tim.     "He's  an  awful  roarer." 
..    "  Fm  afraid  not.      He  generally  leads,  you  know." 

"  If  I  hear  him  yelling,  Martin,  and  if  I  see  him  twist- 
ing his  head  around  to  see  are  the  people  admiring  him, 
'twill  make  me  turn  in  my  coffin." 

"  Never  mind  him,  Tim.  He  won't  trouble  you,  Fll 
promise  you." 

"  Martin." 
,  "Yes,  Tim." 

"  Would  you  read  one  of  the  Psalms  for  me  ?  " 

"Which, 'Tim?" 

"  The  Benedic  — ,  Martin.     'Twas  you  introduced  me 

to  it." 

Father  Martin  took  up  the  time-stained  Breviary, 
and  read  that  glorious  Psalm.  He  was  murmuring 
along  verse  after  verse,  until  he  came  to  "  Quomodo 
miseretur  pater  filiorum,  misertus  est  Dominus  timenti- 
bus  se ;  quoniam  ipse  cognovit  figmentum  nostrum. 
Recordatus  est  quoniam  pulvis  sumus ;  homo,  sicut  foe- 
num,  dies  ejus ;  tanquam  flos  agri,  sic  efflorebit." 


A  LAST   APHORISM  213 

"  Martin." 

''Yes,  Tim." 

"  My  mind  was  wandering  when  I  spoke  about  Daly. 
Give  me  another  absolution." 

Martin  imparted  the  Sacrament  again.  Then,  after 
a  pause.  Father  Tim  said  :  — 

"  Martin." 

"Yes,  Tim." 

"  Are  you  there  ?  " 

"Yes,  Tim." 

"My  sight  —  is  —  leaving  me.  But  —  didn't  —  I  — 
tell  —  you,  Martin  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  That  the  —  Blessed  Virgin  —  would  —  come  for  — 
me?" 

"You  did,  Tim." 

"  There  —  she  —  is,  Martin  !  " 

"  Where  ?  "  said  Father  Martin,  staring  wildly. 

"  Look  —  there  —  over  her  —  picture.  Yes,"  he  said, 
speaking  to  the  invisible,  "I'm  ready.  Never — refuse 
—  a  —  good  —  off  —  " 

And  Martin  was  alone  in  the  room. 

There  was  a  vast  gathering  at  the  obsequies.  Father 
Daly  did  chant  the  Antiphons,  and  the  most  magnifi- 
cent music  of  the  Catliolic  burial  service  ;  and  I  am 
afraid  he  did  twist  his  head  around  sometimes  to  see 
the  effect  on  his  audience,  but  the  silent  slumberer  made 
no  siofn.  Tliese  thinfjs  were  of  no  concern  to  him  nt)w 
or  forevermore. 

When  the  wliite  ring  of  the  assembled  jiri(\sts  was 
broken  up  around  tlie  grave  after  tlie  wailing  of  the 
Bencdidus,  and  of  all  assembled  only  the  dead  jiriest 
an<l  Fatlier  Martin  remained,  the  people  closed  around 
the  colhn.     And  then 

"  Til  nil  jii'ose  a  great  wailing." 

The    men    stood    silently  weeping;    the    women    were 
demonstrative  in  their  outburst  of  sorrow.     Some  knelt 


214  LUKE   DELMEGE 

and  beat  the  coffin  with  their  open  palms ;  some  lifted 
hands  to  heaven  ;  all  cried  :  "  (jod  be  with  him  that  is 
gone  !  "  And  you  conld  hear  strange  stories  narrated 
of  his  goodness  and  self-sacrifice  ;  and  his  wisdom  liad 
passed  into  a  proverb  amongst  a  proverb-loving  people. 

"  Many's  the  time  he  said  to  me  :  '  God  is  good  ;  and 
He  said  He  would.'  " 

"  Ay,  indeed,  '  A  stout  heart  for  a  long  road,'  he  used 
to  say.  And  sure  we  wanted  the  pleasant  word  to  keep 
our  s]Derits  up." 

"  '  Darby,'  he  used  to  say,  '  Darby,  never  let  a  fox 
get  on  your  shoulder  to  pluck  the  grapes.  H  you  do. 
Darby,  believe  me  very  few  will  drop  into  your 
mouth.'  " 

"  Wisha,  what'll  become  of  thim  little  orphans,  I 
wonder?  Sure,  they  have  no  one  now  but  the  grate 
God  !  " 

"  Whisht,  'uman,  they're  down  at  Father  Martin's." 

"  God  bless  him  !  Sure  he  has  the  kind  heart.  But 
poor  Father  Tim  !  poor  Father  Tim  !  The  heavens  be 
his  bed  to-night  !  " 

There  is  no  harm  in  feeling  a  sense  of  justifiable 
pride  when  one  makes  a  great  discovery.  Hence,  we 
congratulate  ourselves  on  the  unique  distinction  of  hav- 
ing found  that  the  distinctive  term  of  popular  canoni- 
zation in  Ireland  is  that  word  "poor."  The  man  who 
is  spoken  of  as  poor  is  an  admired  and  loved  man. 
"  Poor  Father  Tim  !  "  "  Poor  St.  Joseph  !  "  "  The  poor 
Pope  !  "  Is  it  not  significant  that  an  impoverished  race, 
to  whom  poverty,  often  accentuated  into  famine,  has 
been  the  portion  of  their  inheritance  and  their  cup  for 
nigh  on  seven  hundred  years,  should  take  that  word  as 
the  expression  of  their  affection  ?  Happy  is  the  priest 
to  whom  it  is  applied  ;  he  has  a  deep  root  in  the  people's 
hearts. 

It  was  never  applied  to  the  great  Canon.  Pie  was 
so  lofty,  and  great,  and  dignified,  that  every  one  felt  it 
would  be  a  misnomer.     But  we  retain  a  lingering  affec- 


A   LAST   APHORISM  215 

tion  for  him,  for  he  was  a  most  worthy  man  ;  and  this 
time  we  shall  oppose  the  popular  verdict,  or  rather 
svip})ly  the  popular  omission. 

The  poor  Canon  was  convalescent.  He,  too,  had  been 
attacked  by  that  most  irreverent  and  undiscriminat- 
ing-  invader,  the  influenza.  But  he  had  a  curate,  and 
Father  Tim  hadn't.  That  made  all  the  difference  in 
the  world.  Father  Tim  went  to  heaven  ;  the  Canon 
remained  in  the  valley  of  tears.  And  he  was  weak, 
and  languid,  and  depressed.  He  had  heard  of  his  neigh- 
bour's demise. 

"A  good  poor  fellow,"  he  said,  ''but  somewhat  un- 
formed. Quaint  and  almost  —  ha  —  medijeval,  he  could 
hardly  be  styled  —  ha — a  man  of  the  world.  But  he 
was  a  simple,  unadorned  priest." 

This  was  said  to  Barbara,  who  had  come  down  from 
Dublin  to  nurse  her  uncle. 

"  I  understood,"  said  Barbara,  in  reply,  her  kind  heart 
always  anxious  to  say  the  kind  word,  "  that  he  was 
guardian  to  Anna  Bedford's  little  cliildren.  Oh  !  it 
was  so  sad  !  " 

"Imprudent,  my  dear  child  !  "  said  the  Canon.  "  Or, 
rather  a  series  of  —  ha  —  imprudences.  Think  of  that 
young  lady,  leaving  the — ha  —  luxuries  of  her  Dublin 
home  to  live  in  such  a  remote  and  —  lia  —  uncivilized 
place.  And  this  on  one  hundred  pounds  a  year  I  And 
then  the  imprudence  of  that  — ha  — excellent  clerg3'man 
in  taking  the  grave  and  serious  Dhligation  of  their  —  ha 

—  mainteuanre  and  education.  We  shall  never  learn 
ordinary'  —  ha — prurience  in  Ireland." 

"  You  have  liad  a  letter  from  Louis,  uncle  ?"  said  Bar- 
bara, anxious  to  change  the  subject. 

"  Yes  I  "  said  the  uncle,  whose  many  imprudt'iiees 
there  now  flashed  on  his  mind.  He  thought  Barl)ara 
was  personal  in  her  remarks. 

"I  want  you,  Barbara,  for  the  —  ha — future  to  re- 
main here.     I  siiall  give  you  up  the  keys  of  this  —  ha 

—  establishment  —  " 

"I'm  afraid,  uncle,  much  as  I  should  like  to  be  your 


216  LUKE   DELMEGE 

companion,  and  the  quiet  country  life  would  have  many- 
attractions  for  me,  I  am  called  elsewhere." 

"  Mother  can  manage  without  you  now,  my  dear 
child,"  he  said.  "  And  suppose  you  were  to  form  a  re- 
spectable—  ha  —  alliance  b}^  marriage,  she  would  have 
to  dispense  with  your  services." 

"  It  is  not  mother  that  needs  me,  uncle,"  she  said, 
weeping  softly,  "but  poor  Louis." 

"  Then  you  have  heard  something  to  cause  grave 
apprehension  ? "  said  the  Canon.  "  I  thought  that 
Louis  was  promising  to  have  a  most  respectable  — " 
He  did  not  finish  the  diplomatic  phrase.  It  hurt  liis 
conscience. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Barbara ;  "  but  I  have  presenti- 
ments, and  I  am  anxious." 

"  You  don't  think  he  has  any  tendency  now  towards 
—  ha  —  well,  evil  companionship  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  murmured.  "  London  is  a  dan- 
gerous place." 

"  You  would  not    suspect  that  he  had    any  leaning 
towards  —  ha  —  I  can  hardly  express  myself,"  said  the 
Canon,  blandly, "  towards  —  well — intoxicating  drinks  ?  " 
"  I  hardly  dare  think  on  the  subject,"  she  said. 
"  And,  of  course,"  said  the  Canon,  with  that  consum- 
mate diplomacy   in  which   he  considered  himself  past 
master,  "  it  never  entered  into   your  mind  that  —  that 
— ha — he   might   have  —  it    is   only    a — supposititious 
case,  you  know,  — ha  —  contemplated  self-destruction  ?  " 
"  Oh  !  uncle  !  uncle  !  "  cried  Barbara,  in  a  paroxysm 
of  grief,  "  why  did  you  not  tell  me  sooner  ?    Oh  !   Louis, 
Louis  !  I  shall  never  forgive  myself." 

The  Canon  was  greatly  troubled.  He  hated  scenes. 
They  disturbed  his  equanimity,  and  left  his  nerves  tin- 
gling for  hours  after.  And  he  felt  now  how  unreason- 
able it  was  of  Barbara  not  to  have  accepted  his  diplomatic 
suggestions  in  a  diplomatic  manner.  Women  are  so 
unreasonable  ;  their  intuitions  and  instincts  rush  so  far 
ahead  of  reason. 

"  Now,  Barbara,  this  is  unreasonable,  and  not  at  all 


A   LAST   APHORISM  217 

—  ha  —  what  I  expected  from  you.  A  young  lady 
brought  up  as  you  have  been  should  have  acquired  — 
ha  —  more  composure  of  manner." 

"  But,  uncle  dear,  if  what  you  have  hinted  at  were 
only  remotely  possible  it  would  be  dreadful  beyond  en- 
durance.   Poor  Louis  !  we  have  not  treated  him  well  ! " 

''  Now,  now,  Barbara,  please  let  us  not  continue  the 
[)ainful  subject.      I  am  not  well.      I  am  depressed,  and 

—  lia  —  these  harrowing  subjects  are  really  —  well: — 
embarrassing." 

"  I'm  sure   I'm   so  sorry,  uncle  ;    but  when  could  I 

"  Well,  dear,"  the  Canon  said,  his  natural  benevolence 
conquering,  "■  1  tliink  you  are  right.  Indeed,  I  must  say 
now  that  I  suggested  to  your  —  ha  —  excellent  mother 
months  ago  that  Louis  —  ha  —  needed  a  protecting 
hand—" 

"•  Mother  never  told  me  —  Oh  !  dear  ! —  Oh  !  dear  !  " 
sobbed  Barbara,  in  her  agony. 

^  Well  !  never  mind,  child  ;  there  is  no  harm  done. 
You  can  make  your  preparations  at  once  ;  and  leave  for 
London  as  soon  as  —  ha  —  you  are  able." 

''  Oh  !  thanks,  dear  uncle,"  said  Barbara  ;  "  I  shall 
leave  to-night,  with  your  permission.  And  you  mustn't 
thiidv  me  cruel  or  ungrateful,  dear  uncle,  to  leave  you 
until  you  are  quite  beyond  convalescence.  But,  you 
know  —  " 

'-'•  Quite  enough,  F>arbara,"  he  said.  "  I  understand 
you,  my  child.  I  shall  give  you  money  for  your  jour- 
ney ;  and  there  is  a  most  estimable  young  —  friend  — 
or  —  rather  parishioner  of  mine  in  London  —  a  young 
priest  —  I  think,  by  the  way,  you  met  him  here  at  one 
time." 

"  You  mean  Father  Delmege,  uncle,"  she  exclaimed. 
"  C)h,  yes  !  he  has  l)een  very  kind  to  Louis  —  that  is.  I 
mean,  I  think  he  has  been  —  " 

"  Well,  I  shall  give  you  a  letter  to  that  estimable 
young  clergyman,  and  ask  him  to  help  you  in  the  —  lia 
—  exceedingly  arduous  task  you  have  undertaken." 


218  LUKE  DELMEGE 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  minutes. 

"  And,  Barbara  !  "  exclaimed  the  Canon. 

"Yes,  uncle  dear." 

"  If  you  thought  well  of  it,  perhaps  you  might  deem 
it  —  ha  —  prudent  to  bring  Louis  back  to  Ireland —  " 

"  Father  and  Louis  do  not  seem  to  understand  each 
other,"  she  said  sadly. 

The  Canon  paused,  debating  the  prudence  of  what  he 
was  going  to  say.  For  the  Canon  in  his  youth  had  been 
a  most  unselfish,  imprudent  creature,  given  to  all  kinds 
of  generous,  mad  impulses  (witness  that  girl  in  typhus 
whom  he  had  placed  in  the  ambulance  waggon,  as  he 
would  now  call  it),  and  therefore  it  behoved  him  to  be 
on  his  guard. 

"I  meant,"  he  said,  "that  perhaps,  —  it  is  only  a  sug- 
gestion, —  that  perhaps  Louis  and  you  might  take  up 
your  residence  here  until  such  a  period  as  would  insure 
his  thorough  reform  —  I  mean  convalescence." 

"  Oh  !  uncle,  you  are  too  good  ;  you  are  too  good  ! 
I  will  bring  Louis  back  ;   and  oh  I   we  shall  be  so  hapj^y." 

And  Barbara,  rash,  daring  little  girl,  actually  took 
the  soft  hand  of  her  unresisting  uncle  and  kissed  it. 
He  did  not  withdraw  his  hand,  nor  was  he  offended. 

And  so  a  few  days  afterwards  Louis  Wilson  stared 
with  wide,  colourless  eyes,  in  which  the  pupils  were  but 
a  pin-point,  and  out  of  a  very  glassy  face  at  an  appari- 
tion that  framed  itself  in  the  doorway  of  his  room. 
And  some  one,  he  dreamt,  took  up  his  shaking  hand, 
from  which  the  finger-nails  were  mouldering,  and  kissed 
him.  And  the  good  old  housekeeper  announced  to  the 
other  lodgers  a  few  days  later  that  "  a  hangel  had  come 
hall  the  way  from  Hireland  to  the  puir  young  gentle- 
man ;  "  and  that  her  honest  conscience  was  at  rest. 
And  Barbara  was  very  happy,  for  tilings  were  not  alto- 
gether so  bad  as  she  had  dreaded  ;  and  she  knew  that 
she  had  one  great  friend  in  London — the  Rev.  Luke 
Delmege. 

And  the  Canon  had  a  letter  from  his  Bishop  to  the 
effect  that  his  Lordship  was  promoting  his  curate,  the 


i  A   LAST   APHORISM  219 

Rev.  Patrick  Casey,  to  a  parish  in  a  far  part  of  the  dio- 
cese ;  and  that  he  was  sending  him  another  curate. 
Who  will  say  that  a  Bishop  cannot  enjoy  a  joke?  Well, 
;  half-way  !  For  Father  Pat  did  not  succeed  to  Gortna- 
!  goshel,  as  his  good  friend  wished  ;  yet  he  got  his  in- 
cumbency at  last,  and  he  owes  his  benefice  to  that  stray 
joke  that  found  its  way  into  the  most  absurd  and 
informal  will  that  even  a  Lord  Chancellor  could  devise. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
DISENCHANTMENT 

Luke  Delmege  crossed  over  from  Holyhead  by  the 
night  boat.  He  had  called  for  a  moment  at  his  old 
presbytery  and  seen  the  dear  old  Vicar  and  Father 
Sheldon. 

"  More  civilized,"  thought  the  Vicar,  "  but  not  quite 
so  attractive." 

"  Of  course  you'll  run  over  to  see  the  Wilsons,"  said 
Father  Sheldon.     "  They  are  now  —  " 

"•  I  should  like  to  do  so  very  much  indeed,"  said 
Luke,  "but  really  I  have  no  time.  The  mail  goes 
about  five  or  six  o'clock,  I  think,  and  I  have  a  few  pur- 
chases to  make." 

"Miss  Wilson  will  be  disappointed,"  said  Father 
Sheldon. 

Luke  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

Next  morning,  sleepy  and  discontented,  he  wandered 
around  Dublin  waiting  for  the  down  mail.  If  he  had 
had  time,  he  would  have  run  down  to  see  his  own  Alma 
Mater  ;  but  there  was  no  time.  He  thought  Dublin  — 
the  Dublin  that  had  appeared  to  him  in  his  student 
days,  now  so  long,  so  very  long  ago,  a  fairy  city  of 
splendour  —  dingy  and  mean.  He  shrank  into  himself 
as  he  saw  coatless,  grimy  men  actually  treading  the 
pavements  of  Grafton  Street.  The  23yramid  of  human- 
ity, that  poverty  piles  around  the  O'Connell  Statue  and 
Nelson's  Pillar,  seemed  a  revolting  picture.  He  passed 
into  Stephen's  Green.  He  rather  liked  the  ponds,  and 
cascades,  and  the  flowers ;  but  the  people  seemed  so 
shabbily  dressed.     And  then  he  nearly  stumbled  over 

220 


DISENCHANTMENT  221 

a  few  corpses  —  no  I  they  were  only  tramps  sleeping  on 
the  grass  of  the  Green.     "  How  horrible  !  "  said  Luke. 
And   this   is   the    University    College    Chapel  !       It 
sounds  well.     The  very  words  have  a  glamour  and  a 
meaning  all  tlieir  own.     He  went  in  to  say  his  Office 
and   make  a  short  visit.      He  was   enraptured.      The 
architecture,  the  marble  of  walls  and  pillars,  the  dusk 
in  which  the  altar  was  hid,  the  pulpit  wiiere  Newman 
had  preached,  all  appealed  to  his  newly  formed  fancies. 
He  went  into  the  dim  twilight  of  the  side  chapel,  and 
remembered  having  read  that  there  on  that  altar,  with 
that  same  small  circular  window  letting  in  sunlight,  and 
moonlight,  and  darkness,  the  great  Oratorian  used  to 
say  Mass.     He  called  up    the    scene,  and  behind  that 
scene,  and  above  and  around  it,  he  saw  what  might  have 
been;   and  the  ghosts  rose  up  under  the  s])ell  of  imagi- 
nation, the  spectres  of  magniticeiit  possibilities  that  never 
had    passed  beyond  ideas.      He  thought  he  heard   the 
bell  ringing  for  Vespers  —  a  sweet,  soft,  mournful  bell, 
that  tolled  out  of  the  mists  and  shadows  of  dreandand. 
There  was  a  murmur  of  voices  smhlenly  hushed,  and  the 
shuftling  of  feet,  and  one  by  one  a  vast  concourse  of 
men  filed  into  the  church.     They  were  dressed  in  aca- 
demic fashion,  their  long  gowns  or  togas  falling  loosely 
around  the  ordinary  dress,  and  tliey  carried  the  well- 
known  square  caps  in  their   hands.       A   few   had   blue 
hoods,   falling  down    gracefully  over    their    shoulders; 
and  one  or  two,  quite  distinguished   fioni  tlieir  fellows, 
wore    red.     But   there  was  a  gravity,  a  com})osure,  a 
sense  of  personal   dignity  and   rev(u-ence  about  all,  that 
made  Luke  think   he  had  seen  nothing  like  it  since  the 
day  of  his  ordination  at  Maynoolli.        Wluii   all   were 
seated,  a  priest,  clad  in  cope  and  accompanied  by  many 
acolytes,  came  to  the  altar  and  intoned  tlie  Ih'iif<  in  arh'u- 
torinm  menm  intendt'.    The  choir  took  up  the  ehant  :  the 
organ  pealed  out,  and  then  there  was  a  glorious  burst 
of  masculine  voices,  that  echoed  from  side  to  side,  as 
strophe  and    antistrophe  in  a   great    Christian   clun-us, 
and  seemed  to  beat  around  the  walls  and  to  be  caught 


222  LUKE   DELMEGE 

up  to  the  ceiling  ;  and  the  pause  at  the  antiphons  be- 
came painful,  until  they  swelled  out  again  into  the 
rhythmic  thunder  of  a  thousand  voices.  But  all  the 
sweet,  beautiful  memories  of  his  college  came  back  to 
Luke  when  the  Magnificat  was  intoned,  and  the  great 
prophetic  voice  of  the  young  Queen  Mother  swelled  out 
into  the  deep  thrilling  accents  of  her  followers  and 
clients.  Then  again  a  painful  pause  ;  and  Luke  heard 
a  voice,  at  first  plaintive  and  feeble,  and  then  firm  and 
resonant,  and  piercing  like  shafts  of  light  into  every 
corner  of  the  chapel  and  every  recess  of  the  human 
hearts  that  were  throbbing  under  the  magic  of  mighty 
words,  and  the  strange  overwhelming  influence  of  a 
great  and  exalted  character.  And  there  was  no  elo- 
quence such  as  Luke  then  understood  it  ;  no  beautiful 
rounded  periods,  emphasized  by  action  ;  but  simple, 
plain  truths,  and  put  in  such  a  way  as  to  admit  of  no 
contradiction  or  question,  for  they  carried  conviction 
even  to  the  critical  or  sceptical,  if  such  had  found  their 
way  into  such  a  sympathetic  circle.  And  it  was  all 
about  life  and  its  issues ;  its  worthlessness  in  se ;  its 
tremendous  importance  relatively,  and  the  sacred  re- 
sponsibilities that  are  intrusted  to  a  race,  feeble  and 
impotent  and  transient,  but  endowed  with  infinite  possi- 
bilities ;  and  powers  for  evil  and  good,  that  cannot  be 
measured  in  time,  for  time  has  only  the  transparent 
tissue  of  a  cloud,  but  mu.st  be  thrown  upon  the  back- 
ground of  eternities  for  the  revelation  of  their  nature 
and  importance.  But  Luke  drew  all  his  faculties,  now 
expanded  into  admiration  and  enthusiasm,  together 
when  the  preacher  went  on  to  say  that  every  one  under- 
stood how  utterly  insignificant  was  this  world  and  man's 
life,  unless  a  light  was  thrown  on  both  from  eternity. 
No  man  would  care  to  work  or  suffer  for  a  paltry  and 
perishable  race.  All  the  vast  cycles  of  Imman  history 
are  merely  a  point  in  time,  just  as  our  earth  and  the 
visible  universe  are  but  grains  of  sand  in  infinity.  All 
the  dreams  of  mortals,  therefore,  all  the  aspirations  of 
great  idealists,  all  the  music  of  poetry,  all  the  high  and 


DISENCHANTMENT  223 

lofty  conjectures  after  human  perfection,  are  tales  with- 
out meaning  or  moral,  until  you  suppose  man's  immor- 
tality. Religion,  therefore,  is  an  absolute  necessity  if 
life  is  to  have  a  meaning  ;  and  hence,  in  every  scheme 
of  liberal  study,  metaphysics  must  enter  and  become  a 
constituent,  nay,  the  principal  constituent,  if  it  were 
only  to  show  the  mere  materialist  that,  even  outside 
and  beyond  religion,  tliere  are  mysteries  upon  mysteries 
ever  waiting  to  be  solved.  And  then  the  preacher 
passed  on  to  Ireland,  its  history,  its  martyrdom,  its 
mission  ;  and  told  these  young  souls  that  the  last  chap- 
ter was  not  yet  written,  would  not  Ik;  written  for  cen- 
turies to  come  ;  for  that  a  race  with  a  priceless  history, 
and  a  present  unencumbered  with  material  problems, 
must  have  of  necessity  a  rich  and  glorious  future. 
What  that  future  was  to  be  Luke  could  not  hear,  for 
already  his  mind  was  busy  with  many  problems  evoked 
by  the  preacher's  words,  and  for  tlie  hundredth  time 
Luke  was  face  to  face  with  enigmas.  Then  the  vision 
vanished,  and  Luke  was  alone.  He  shook  the  dream 
from  liim  to  see  two  young  girls  staring  at  him  cuii- 
ously.  lie  took  up  his  hat  and  passed  down  the  aisle. 
Under  the  gallery  he  paused  to  look  around  and  wonder 
where  his  beautiful  dream  had  vanished.  He  saw  only 
the  sacristan  testing  the  l)rass  looks  on  the  money  boxes 
and  looking  suspiciously  towards  him. 

At  the  very  best,  indeed,  and  under  the  most  favour- 
able circumstances  of  climate,  the  railway  trip  on  the 
Great  Southern  line  is  decidedly  uninteresting.  Ire- 
land's l)cautv  spots  lie  around  her  high  coast-line,  like 
jewels  around  the  lijjs  of  an  enchased  goblet.  Hut  the 
gray  shadow  of  an  A})ril  sky  also  hung  down  around 
])rown  bog  and  scraggy  iield,  and.  though  the  promise 
of  May  was  in  the  air,  bud  and  flower  wrajijied  tliem- 
selves  cosily  in  their  cradles  and  would  not  venture 
into  the  light.  They  "  did  not  like  this  weeping  nurse  ; 
they  wanted  their  laughing  mother." 

And  so  Luke  thouglit  he  had  never  seen  anything  so 
melancholy   and   sad.      There   was   a   look   of   age    and 


224  LUKE  DELMEGE 

decay  about  everything.  Here  and  there  they  swept 
by  the  skeleton  of  some  old  ruined  abbey  and  castle, 
that  was  just  kept  from  falling  by  the  tender  support 
of  the  kind  ivy.  That  was  history.  And  here  and 
there,  more  frequently,  he  saw  standing  the  bare  brown 
mud  walls  of  an  unroofed  cabin,  the  holes,  that  once 
were  windows  and  doors,  staring  like  the  sockets  of  a 
skull.  There  was  the  mark  of  the  fire  on  the  chimney- 
wall.  Where  were  they  now,  who  had  wept  and  laughed, 
and  sung  and  mourned,  as  they  sat  around  that  sacred 
hearth  ?  Perhaps  it  is  an  etching  on  the  memory  of 
some  great  capitalist  in  Omaha  or  Chicago  ;  perhaps  for 
him  that  ragged  hawthorn  before  the  door  is  the  life- 
tree  Igdrasil,  waving  its  mighty  branches  and  intoning 
in  the  night  wind,  though  its  roots  are  deep  down  among 
the  dead. 

It  was  evening,  cold  and  raw,  when  Luke  stepped 
from  the  railway  carriage,  and  saw  the  quaint  old  side- 
car and  the  rough,  shaggy  horse,  that  were  to  carry  him 
some  miles  to  his  home.  He  did  not  see  the  old  servant 
at  first,  until  a  voice,  as  from  far-off  spaces,  said  close 
by  :  — 

"  Yerra,  thin,  Masther  Luke,  and  sure  it  is  I'm  proud 
to  see  you." 

"  Ho,  Larry,"  said  Luke,  Avith  an  effort,  and  with  an 
effort  shaking  the  rough  hand  of  the  old  man,  "  and  how 
is  Nancy  ?     But  you're  looking  very  old,  Larry." 

"  The  years  are  tellin',  Masther  Luke,"  said  the  old 
man,  who  was  somewhat  chilled  by  the  appearance 
and  grand  manner  of  him  whom  he  had  known  from 
his  childhood ;  "  'tisn't  young  we're  gettin',  Masther 
Luke  !  " 

'•'  And  the  side-car  looks  so  old  and  shabby,"  said 
Luke;   "why  don't  they  get  it  upholstered?" 

"  Well,  tliin,"  said  Larry,  somewhat  offended,  as  it 
seemed  to  imply  a  censure  on  himself,  "  'twas  only  last 
summer  we  got  it  done  up  ;  but  the  winther  and  the 
rain  took  a  lot  out  of  it,  your  reverence." 

"  And   the   poor   old   mare !     Why,  when   was   she 


DISENCHANTMENT  225 

clipped,  Larry?  She  doesn't  reflect  much  credit  on 
your  grooming." 

"  She  was  at  the  plough  all  tlie  spring,  your  rever- 
ence," said  Larry,  "  and  the  weather  was  too  cowld  to 
cli}:)  her." 

He  thought  his  old  "  Masther  Luke  "  was  changed  a 
good  deal.     He  dropped  the  familiar  title. 

As  they  drove  along,  the  aspect  of  the  landscape 
seemed  intolerably  melancholy  and  dull.  The  gray 
fields,  that  had  not  yet  sprung  into  green,  the  thatched 
cottages,  the  ruined  walls,  the  broken  hedges,  the  ragged 
bushes,  all  seemed  to  Luke,  fresh  from  the  prim  civili- 
zation of  Aylesburgh,  unspeakably  old  and  wretched. 
Ruin  and  dilapidation  were  everywhere. 

"  It's  a  land  of  tombs  and  desolation,"  he  thought. 
As  lie  drove  up  the  long,  hawthorn-shaded  avenue,  that 
led  to  liis  father's  liouse,  the  gloom  deepened.  During 
his  college  course,  when  "home  for  the  liolidays,"  how 
his  heart  used  to  beat,  until  lie  shouted  with  glee,  as  he 
passed  up  along  the  quick  and  thorn  hedges !  How  he 
used  to  jump  on  the  car  to  gather  a  leafy  branch  to  be 
waved  in  his  triumphal  march  towards  home ;  and  how 
his  cheery  hallo !  would  bring  out  all  the  collies  and 
retrievers  with  their  glad  oratorios  of  yelping  and  bark- 
ing ;  and  there  in  the  background  was  the  aged,  stooped 
figure  of  his  good  father,  and  the  sweet  face  of  his  mother 
under  the  crown  of  her  beautiful  snowy  cap,  and  Lizzie 
and  Margery  —  well,  but  'tis  just  the  same  scene  now ! 
Alas,  no  !  the  disenchantment  has  come  !  The  dogs  are 
barking,  indeed,  and  there  are  the  dear  old  figures,  and 
there  is  Lizzie  alone,  for  IShirgery  is  pacing  the  garden 
walks  far  away  amongst  the  Good  Shepherds  at  Lim- 
erick. But  it  is  not  the  same.  Oh,  no  I  nor  ever  shall 
be  again.  He  hath  oaten  of  the  tree  of  knowledge,  and 
the  Eden  of  his  childhood  has  vanished.  They  all  no- 
ticed the  great  change.  Lizzie  almost  cried.  Tlie  father 
said  nothing.  A  reticent,  silent  race,  these  old  Irish 
fathers  were.  The  mother,  ever  faithful,  could  only 
feel  pride  in  her  glorious  boy. 


226  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  He  was  so  grand  and  grave.  Ah !  wisha !  what  a 
pity  poor  Father  Pat  wasn't  here !  What  a  proud  man 
he'd  be  this  day  !  "  she  thought. 

But  the  rest  felt  that  a  stranger  had  come  to  visit 
them,  and  there  was  restraint  and  a  little  affected 
formalism. 

"Has  the  priest  come  ?  "  said  Peggy,  when  Larry  was 
putting  up  the  mare. 

"  He  has,"  said  Larry,  crossly. 

"  How  is  he  lookin'  ?  "  said  Peggy. 

"  Oh  !  grand  intirely,"  said  Larry.  "  But  we  must 
borry  the  Canon's  coach  for  him.  Begor,  he'll  be 
wantin'  me  to  put  on  brass  buttons  and  a  high  cockade." 

Peggy  looked  at  him  suspiciously. 

"  Keep  yer  jokes  for  some  one  else,"  she  said. 

"And  so,  Lizzie,"  said  Luke  at  the  tea-table  (dear 
me !  how  plain  this  white-and-gold  china  looked  after 
the  tea  equipages  at  the  salon),  "  you  are  going  to  be 
married  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Lizzie,  blushing,  and  with  a  little  toss  of 
her  head. 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  hope  you  have  made  a  good  seleC' 
tion,"  said  Luke. 

"Well,  thin,  indeed  he  is,"  said  the  mother;  "as 
dacent  a  boy  as  there  is  from  here  to  Cork,  and  that's  a 
big  word.  He  hasn't  all  the  money  we  expected  ;  but, 
sure,  he's  a  kind,  graceful  boy,  and  he  comes  of  a  dacent 
family." 

"  And  Margery  has  run  away  from  you  ?  "  said  Luke. 
"  I  didn't  think  her  thoughts  took  that  direction." 

"  Thim  gay  youngsters,"  said  the  mother,  "are  the 
first  to  inter  the  convents.  They  pretind  nothing  but 
coortin'  and  lafkin' ;  and  thin,  all  of  a  suddint,  off  they 
go  and  laugh  at  us  all.  But  you're  not  atin'.  Father 
Luke." 

"  Oh  !  yes,  thank  you,  Pm  doing  very  well,"  said 
Luke.     "And  Father  Casey  has  gone?" 

"  He  has  ;   and  God  be  wid  him,  and  may  his  journey 


DISENCHANTMENT  227 

thry  with  liim  !     Sure,  maniiy's  the  wan  will  miss  him- 
and  the  place  is  lonesome  widout  him." 

"  And  the  Canon,  how  is  he  ?  "  said  Luke. 

"  Grand  intirely  ;  but  this  sickness  —  the  hinfluenzy 
they  call  it  —  took  a  shake  out  of  him.  He  hasn't  the 
ould  spring  in  his  walk,  and  he's  stooped  a  little.  But 
God  will  spare  him  to  his  people  manny  a  day  yet  !  " 

"  And  who  has  succeeded  Father  Pat  ?  "  asked  Luke. 

"  Oh  !  thin,  a  man  that  will  make  us  mind  our  P's 
and  Q's,  I  tell  you.  Glory  be  to  God  !  he'd  rise  the 
roof  off  your  head  if  you  hard  him  on  Sunday  morn- 
ing-" 

"  He's  a  black,  determined  man,"  said  Mike  Delmege. 
"  He  api)ears  to  mane  what  he  says." 

"  I'm  doubtful  if  he  and  the  Canon  will  pull  together," 
said  Mrs.  Delmege.  But  this  was  heresy  to  Mike  Del- 
mege, who  could  not  conceive  anything  of  liis  priests 
less  than  absolute  perfection. 

"  Lave  'em  alone  I  lave  'em  alone  !  "  he  said.  "  They 
understan'  tlieirselves  better  than  we  do." 

"Well,  sure,  I'm  only  sayin' what  everybody  says," 
apologized  Mrs.  Delmege.  ''  But,  P\ither  Luke,  wliat 
about  yerself  ?  Sure,  v/e  saw  your  name  on  the  pa[)er  ; 
and  didn't  me  heart  swell  when  Father  Pat  brought  it 
up  and  pointed  to  it.  'There,'  he  said,  —  God  be  wid 
him,  my  poor,  dear  man  I  — '  there's  your  son  for  you  ! 
He'll  never  come  ])ack  to  tliis  misfortunate  counthry 
again  I  They'll  make  him  a  bishop  over  there  ! '  Poor 
Father  Pat  !     Poor  Fatlier  Pat  !  " 

"  Well,"  Luke  said,  "  we're  getting  on  pretty  well. 
A  good  deal  of  work;  and  work  must  be  done  over 
there,  I  tell  you  !  It  isn't  like  the  old  country  !  "  It 
was  Luke's  first  criticism,  but  by  no  means  his  last,  on 
his  native  land. 

''  But,  father,"  he  said,  "  why  don't  you  touch  up  the 
old  })lace  ?     I'm  sure  it  looks  very  shabby  and  —  old." 

"'•  We  Avere  thinkin'  of  that  same,  indeed,"  said  his 
father  ;  "  but  we  were  puttin'  it  off  from  day  to  day  ; 
and,  indeed,  we  could  do  it  aisily,"  he  continued,  "for 


228  LUKE  DELMEGE 

we  have  made  by  the  butther  this  year  alone  the  rint 
and  over  it.  Since  the  Canon,  God  bless  him,  showed 
us  what  to  do,  and  how  to  make  a  pinny  of  money  with 
the  eggs,  and  the  butther,  and  the  chickens,  we  were 
never  better  off,  thank  God  !  and  every  family  in  the 
parish  can  say  the  same." 

"The  new  curate  doesn't  like  it,"  said  Mrs.  Delmege. 
"  He  says  'twill  all  come  toppling  down  some  day  like  a 
house  of  cards.     He  believes  in  the  Lague  !  " 

"The  League?"  said  Luke,  half  angrily.  "  It  seems 
to  me  that  you'll  never  be  done  fighting  in  this  unhappy 
country.  It's  always  agitation,  agitation  !  Now,  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  Canon  is  not  only  the  superior  in 
station  and  ability  to  any  of  your  priests,  but  he  alone 
appears  to  have  struck  the  one  thing  that  was  necessary 
to  make  the  country  a  happy  Arcadia." 

"  Ah,  yes  !  He's  the  good  man,  God  spare  him  long 
to  rule  over  his  parish  !  " 

"  And  when  is  Lizzie  to  be  married  ? "  said  Luke. 
He  was  already  impatient  of  home,  and  anxious  to  be 
back  in  Aylesburgh. 

"  On  Thursday,  wid  God's  blessin'  !  "  said  the  mother. 

"  And  I  hope  now,"  said  Luke,  "  that  there  shall  be 
no  scenes  of  rioting  and  revelling,  but  that  everything 
shall  be  conducted  in  a  Christian,  civilized  manner." 

"Oh!  of  course,"  said  the  mother.  "We'll  only 
have  a  few  of  the  neighbours  ;  and,  I  suppose,  the  little 
boy  will  be  bringin'  a  handful  of  friends  wid  him. 
We'll  have  a  bit  of  dinner  in  the  barn ;  and,  perhaps, 
the  boys  and  girls  would  want  a  little  dance  —  that's 
all." 

It  was  the  portrait  in  miniature  of  what  was  really 
before  the  good  mother's  mind  ;  but  she  was  afraid  that 
the  dignity  and  grandeur  of  her  distinguished  son 
would  be  ruffled  at  the  reality. 

Next  da}'  Luke  called  on  the  Canon.  It  was  evening, 
and  it  was  deepening  into  twilight,  as  he  walked  up  the 
well-known  gravelled  path,  and  knocked,  no  longer 
timidly,  but  with  an  air  of  assurance,  almost  of  con- 


DISENCHANTMENT  229 

temjit.  He  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room,  as  of  old. 
Tliere  everything  was  the  same  as  he  had  ever  known 
it  ;  but  there  was  a  vast  change  somewhere.  Where  ? 
In  himself.  He  looked  now  with  critical  disdain  on 
the  Ce7ici  portrait,  and  he  thought  the  Madonna  com- 
monplace. And  that  glass  case  of  artificial  birds  ! 
Olivette  Lefevril  would  liave  given  it  away  to  a  tramp. 
And  here,  not  quite  three  years  ago,  lie  had  sat.  a  timid, 
nervous,  frightened  young  priest,  and  there  had  leaned 
against  the  mantelpiece  that  wretched  young  rotie,  who 
actually  had  the  effrontery  to  argue  with  him.  Yes,  in- 
deed, there  loas  a  change.  The  gentle,  timid  young 
Levite  had  departed  ;  and  here,  in  his  stead,  has  come 
the  self-reliant,  collected,  independent  man  of  experi- 
ence and  —  of  the  world.  The  birds  shook  their  wings, 
as  of  old,  and  chirped.  The  gong  tolled  musically,  and 
here  is  the  Canon. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Delmege?  "  as  of  old. 

"  Well,  thank  you,"  said  Luke,  with  a  pronounced 
accent.     The  Canon  collapsed.     Luke  was  merciful. 

"1  hope  I  see  you  well,  sir,"  said  Luke.  "I  was 
rather  sorry  to  hear  from  my  father  tluit  you  were  still 
suffering  from  the  effects  of  this  most  unhappy  epi- 
demic." 

'-'•  Yes,  indeed  !  "  said  the  Canon.  "  T  cannot  say  that 
I  have  —  ha  —  yet  quite  recovered  from  the  effects  of 
the  disease."  The  Canon  was  watching  Luke  narrowly. 
He  hoped  to  see  some  faltering,  some  weakness.  No ! 
Cool,  calm,  self-possessed,  Luke  sat  bolt  ui)right  in  his 
chair,  and  held  his  hat  and  gloves  witliout  nervous 
awkwardness.  Tliose  three  years  in  England  had  made 
a  change. 

"And  you  have  lost  your  curate?"  said  Luke. 

"  Yes  !  "  said  the  Canon,  blandly  ;  "  at  last  !  at  last  I 
the  Bishop  took  compassion  on  his  gray  hairs,  and  — 
ha  —  as  the  vulgar  saying  is,  he  threw  a  iwrish  at 
mm. 

"And  Fatlier  Tim  gone  also?" 

"  Yes,  poor  fellow  I      Kind  and  good,  but  inexperi- 


230  LUKE   DELMEGE 

enced.  Really,"  said  the  Canon,  looking  at  his  visitor 
keenly,  "  our  clergymen  seem  to  want  a  good  deal  of 
that  —  ha  —  mannerism  and  —  ha  —  polish,  and  —  ha  — 
knowledge  of  life  which  —  ha  —  intercourse  with  other 
nations  seems  to  create  or  develop." 

"I'm  hardly  prepared,"  said  Luke,  who  swallowed 
the  compliment  as  a  morsel  of  sweet  savour,  "  to  offer  an 
opinion  ;  but  I  certainly  do  think  that  there  are  a  good 
many  customs  and  habits  at  home  that  probably  would 
be  permitted  to  fall  into  desuetude  if  we  had  larger 
experience.  I  have  already  said  to  my  good  people  at 
home,  and  you  will  permit  me  to  say  so  to  you,  sir,  that 
nowhere  have  I  seen  such  rational  efforts  to  promote 
the  welfare  of  the  people  as  in  your  parish,  and  at  your 
suggestion,  and  under  your  supervision." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  Canon  ;  "  and  yet  there 
are  some  who  not  only  do  not  share  that  opinion,  but 
who  actually  strive  to  —  ha  —  embarrass  me  in  my  efforts 
at  —  ha  —  ameliorating  the  condition  of  my  people.  But 
let  us  dismiss  the  subject.  You  are  —  ha  —  thrown  a 
good  deal  in  contact  with  the  better  classes  —  the  aris- 
tocracy in  England  ?  " 

"  The  better  classes  ?  yes  !  The  aristocracy  of  talent  ? 
yes  !  The  aristocracy  of  birth  ?  no !  My  mission  is 
in  a  cathedral  town,  and  there  is  a  good  deal  of  select 
society,  both  amongst  Anglicans  and  Catholics." 

"  And  I  should  —  say,  a  total  absence  of  distinction, 
not  to  say  bigotry  ?  " 

"  Such  a  distinction  is  utterly  unknown,"  said  Luke. 
"  There  is  even  more  deference  paid  to  a  Catholic  priest 
than  to  an  Anglican.  In  fact,  I  have  said  more  than 
once  that  between  the  races,  Irish  and  English,  and  be- 
tween the  different  forms  of  religion,  there  is  but  a 
sheet  of  semi-transparent  paper  ;  but  demagogues  have 
daubed  it  all  over  with  hideous  caricatures  on  one  side 
and  the  other." 

"  I  most  cordially  agree  with  you,  my  —  ha  —  dear 
young  friend,"  said  the  Canon,  quite  delighted.  "  I'm 
very  pleased,  indeed,  to  see  that  your — ha  —  experience 


DISENCHANTMENT  231 

of  our  brethren  coincides  absolutely  with  the  —  ha  — 
convictions  I  had  formed,  purely,  indeed,  I  may  say,  by 
calm  reasoning  on  a  vexed  question." 

"By  the  way,"  said  the  Canon,  after  a  pause,  "have 
you  met  my  nephew,  Louis,  in  London  ?  " 

For  the  first  time  Luke  showed  signs  of  embarrass- 
ment. He  shifted  uneasily  on  the  chair,  and  stam- 
mered. 

"1  have  met  him,"  he  said,  "but  under  circumstances 
rather  unfavourable  to  —  to  —  a  —  to  our  further  inti- 
macy. But  you  know  I  no  longer  live  in  London.  I 
have  been  transferred  for  some  months  to  Avlesburcrh." 

"Oh!  indeed!"  said  the  Canon.  "  jM}'  niece  has 
gone  over  to  act  as  —  ha  —  superintendent  of  Louis' 
little  menage ;  I  am  sure  that,  if  I  am  to  judge  from  his 
letters,  he  is  mixing  in  excellent  society,  and  is  quite  — 
well,  respectable." 

"  I  did  pay  him  a  formal  visit,"  said  Lidce,  "  but,  un- 
fortunately, he  was  absent,  probably  at  the  hospital." 

"  Very  probably,"  said  the  Canon.  "  Indeed,  1  might 
say  certainly.  He  is  rather  too  devoted  to  his  profes- 
Ton." 

There  was  a  pause.  Luke  found  it  hard  to  continue 
tne  conversation  and  maintain  his  resj)ect  for  truth. 

"  You  have  come  over  for  your — ha — sister's  mar- 
riage?" said  the'  Canon  at  length. 

"  Yes,"  said  Luke.  "She  wishes  tliat  1  should  marry 
them." 

"By  all  means!  my  dear  young  friend,"  said  t!ie 
Canon.  "  liy  all  means.  I  understand  that  tiiis  — 
voung — fiance  is  an  extremely  respectable  vonng 
fellow.""  ■ 

"I  have  heard  so,"  said  Luke,  rising.  "I  should  like 
that  my  father  and  mother  should  be  made  comfortable 
in  their  old  age." 

"  Of  course,  you  will  dine  with  nic  on  Sunday,"  said 
the  Canon.     "  Shall  we  say  live  o'clock  ?  " 

"  Many  thanks,  sir,"  said  Luke,  thinking,  as  he  passed 
down  the  gravelled  walk  :   There  are  changes  here  too  ; 


232  LUKE  DELMEGE 

the  Canon  Las  grown  to  be  very,  very  old  —  everything 
is  old  !  And  he  no  longer  dines  at  seven,  but  at  five  ! 
What  a  change  backwards  !  Retrogression  everywhere  ! 
I  would  have  preferred  a  seven  o'clock  dinner  !  I  hope 
Father  Pat  and  Father  Tim  won't  ask  me.  What  am 
I  thinking  of  ?     They  are  gone  I 

Was  Luke  sorry  for  his  dear  old  friends  ?  He  ought 
to  have  been,  and  he  knew  it.  But  then,  what  can  a 
man  do  who  has  been  obliged  to  adopt  new  ideas  of 
life  ?  You  must  adapt  yourself  to  your  environments 
—  that  is  a  cardinal  principle.  You  must  go  with  the 
tide  —  that's  another.  Yet  he  was  not  quite  sure.  He 
looked  out  over  the  mysterious  sea.  It  was  cold,  chill, 
irresponsive.  There  was  no  voice.  Or  was  it  that  the 
inner  sense  of  the  man  was  stifled,  and  that  Nature, 
failing  the  human  sympathy,  refused  to  send  back  its 
echo  ? 


CHAPTER   XIX 

THE   STRANGER   AND   HIS   GODS 

Luke  Delmege  was  disgusted,  utterly  and  painfully 
disgusted.  He  was  able,  by  an  effort,  to  reconcile  him- 
self to  the  solemnities  of  the  marriage  service,  especially 
as  the  great  Canon  was  only  in  a  subordinate  jjlace  :  but 
the  after-events  chafed  his  nerves  and  did  violence  to 
his  conceptions  of  the  proprieties.  For  at  an  Irish  wed- 
ding all  the  barriers  of  caste,  wealtli,  and  position  are 
taken  down  and  tliere  is  a  delightful  open-heartedness, 
which  sometimes,  it  must  be  confessed,  has  a  tendency 
to  become  riotous  and  orgic.  Hence  the  loud,  clamorous 
benedictions  of  the  blind,  the  halt,  and  the  lame,  gathered 
in  from  all  the  neighbouring  parishes,  liurt  the  nerves  of 
Luke  Delmege,  and  offended  his  sense  of  siglit  and  hear- 
ing, and  did  violence  to  his  theological  principles.  It 
was  liardly  a  month  since  he  had  declared  amongst  the 
esoterics  his  passionate  desire  to  see  a  real,  live,  Scrip- 
tural beggar  —  a  very  Lazarus  of  sores  and  rags;  and 
lo  !  here  they  are,  qualilied  every  one  to  sit  by  the  pool 
of  Bethesda,  or  wasli  in  the  pool  of  Siloe.  And  now  he 
heard,  for  the  iirst  time,  of  the  "seventeen  angels  who 
hould  up  the  ])ill:irs  of  licaven,"  and  the  '' specnd  bless- 
ing of  Miehael,  the  Archangel,"  and  the  '' sowls  in  i'ur- 
gatory  who  would  be  relieved  that  day,"  and  many 
other  strange  and  mystic  sayings,  too  sacred  even  to  be 
witten.  And  yet  Luke  was  not  enthusiastic.  Then 
there  was  the  glorious  musical  duet,  that  Crashaw 
might  have  immortalized,  between  the  famous  blind 
tiddler  from  Aughado\vn  and  the  equally  famous  piper 

233 


234  LUKE  DELMEGE 

from  Monavourleigh.  Nothing  in  the  Homeric  ballads 
could  equal  it. 

"Now,  your  sowl,  Thade,  give  it  to  him." 

"  Gi'  me  that  rosin,  Kate."  And  Kate  would  hand 
the  rosin  to  her  blind  husband,  a  splendid,  stalwart 
Tipperary  man,  but  ''  wisdom  at  one  entrance  quite 
shut  out."  And  then,  as  the  fine  fury  rose,  and  the 
spirit  of  music  and  of  rivalry  possessed  him,  the  sight- 
less orbs  would  roll  in  their  sockets,  as  if  demanding 
liofht  !  lio-ht !  and  his  face  would  whiten  and  his  feet 
tremble  under  the  diviiie  intoxication.  And  such 
music  !  Weird,  and  tragic,  and  melancholy,  till  the 
merry  audience  were  hushed  into  solemnity  and  tears  ; 
and  the  divine  chords  would  wail  out  into  an  attenu- 
ated echo,  and  the  musician  would  lean  down  and 
hearken,  as  if  he  were  not  quite  sure  whether  he  held 
the  strings  or  was  only  dreaming  that  the  soul  of  his 
violin  was  sobbing  itself  away  into  sleep  and  silence. 
For  this  big  Tipperary  man  was  a  horrible  bigamist  ! 
He  had  two  wives  :  the  one  at  liis  side,  who  ministered 
to  his  temporal  wants,  and  the  other,  the  sweet  spirit 
who  woke  to  music  from  his  instrument.  And  there 
was  jealousy  ;  but  what  could  the  poor  woman  do,  when 
it  was  that  destestable  rival  that  earned  the  daily  bread  ? 
So  now  she  affected  pride,  pride  in  her  husband's  power, 
as  she  gazed  on  tlie  entranced  audience.  But  hark  ! 
here  are  all  the  fairies  in  Munster,  with  Cleena  at  their 
head  !  Such  a  mad  revel  of  musical  sounds,  crowd- 
ing on  one  another,  and  jostling  one  another  aside, 
and  running  along  in  mad,  tumultuous  riot,  until 
the  spirit  seized  the  multitude,  and  every  pair  of  feet 
was  going  pit-a-pat  to  the  contagious  and  imj)erious 
merriment. 

"  Begor,  Den,  you'll  never  bate  that.  That's  the 
grandest  chune  wos  ever  liard.  Hould  up,  man  I  Here, 
have  a  sup  to  rouse  you  I  " 

No  !  Den,  the  piper,  could  not  disturb  the  fine  har- 
monies of  his  brain  with  that  dangerous  liquor.  The 
occasion  was  too  critical.     His  honour  depended  on  his 


THE   STRANGER   AND   HIS   GODS  235 

interpretation    of   his   thoughts    on    the    magic    keys. 
Bate  ?     No,  no  !     Wait  till  ye  see  ! 

"  Will  ye  have  the  '  iVIodliereen-na-Sidhe,'  or  the  '  Fox- 
Hunt,'  byes  ? "  he  said,  with  an  affectation  of  forced 
calmness. 

"  The  '  Fox-Hunt,'  the  '  Fox-Hunt,'  "  shouted  all. 
Well  they  knew  it  was  his  masterpiece,  the  ultimate  of 
perfection  on  reeds  and  stops.  Then,  if  you  shut  your 
eyes,  you  heard  the  soft  patter  of  the  horses'  hoofs  at 
the  meet,  and  the  move  tOAvards  the  covert,  and  the 
occasional  crack  of  a  whip,  and  the  faint  bugle-call. 
Then  the  awful  silence  as  the  hounds  are  put  in,  and 
then  the  deep,  solemn  bay  and  the  mighty  chorus  of  a 
hundred  dogs  as  the  quarry  was  found,  and  the  harka- 
way  !  shouted  ])y  the  huntsman.  And  you  needed  no 
interpreter.  Every  man  in  the  audience  made  himself 
one. 

"  Good,  Den,  yer  sowl  to  glory  !  Give  it  to  'em, 
man  !  " 

"  They've  found  him  !  they've  found  him  !  " 

"  There,  they  are  aff  !   Tally-ho  !  " 

"  Whisht,  ye  divil,  there  they  are,  acrass  the  ploughed 
field  !  " 

"  Gor,  wouldn't  you  tliink  you  saw  'em  !  " 

"There  !  he's  run  down  at  last.  Listen  !  listen  ! 
how  the  dogs  yelp  I  " 

And  the  bellows  and  the  chanter  went  puffing  along, 
as  the  music  interpreted  the  minds  and  moods  of  men, 
until,  at  last,  it  died  away  into  a  soft  moan  or  echo  of 
pain. 

"  He's  dead,  begor  !  Listen  to  him  crying  !  Who's 
got  the  brush  ?  " 

Dear  me  !  and  people  talk  about  "  Parsifal "  and 
"  Lohengrin,"  I  l)elieve,  in  some  far-away  places  yet. 
Some  day  they'll  find  that  the  germ  and  soul  of  all  art 
and  music  is  still  haunting  the  enchanted  shores  of 
Ireland. 

But  Luke  was  disgusted  ;  and  still  more  so  when  the 
sounds   of  merriment   arose,    and   jokes   and   laughter 


236  LUKE   DELMEGE 

passed  around  the  mighty  table  in  the  barn,  and  all  the 
rude  chivalry  of  one  sex,  and  all  the  primitive  coquetry 
of  the  other,  accompanied  the  loud  laugh  and  the  scraps 
of  song  that  rippled  around  the  mighty  gathering. 

"  Mother,  how  long  is  this  going  to  last  ?  "  whispered 
Luke.  Mother  was  wiping  her  eyes  with  delight  and 
pride.  That  wedding  at  Lisnalee  would  be  the  talk  of 
the  country  for  the  next  twenty  years. 

"  The  fun  is  only  beginnin',"  she  said  ;  "  God  bless 
the  good  neighbours  ;  sure  we  never  thought  we'd  have 
sich  a  crowd.  Many  a  good  match  will  be  made  to-day. 
God  be  wid  the  time  when  Mike  and  me  —  " 

"  I  think  I  shall  slip  away,"  he  said  ;  "  they  won't 
mind,  I  suppose  ?  " 

'^  Wisha  !  no,  indeed.  Plase  yerself.  And  there's 
the  Canon  risin'." 

There  was  a  hush  of  respect  and  attention,  and  the 
whole  assembly  rose  as  the  Canon  said  good-bye.  Where 
in  the  world  is  there  such  tender,  reverential  courtesy  to 
the  priest  as  is  shown  by  their  loving  flocks  in  Ireland  ? 

Luke  had  said  good-day  to  the  Canon,  and  did  not 
know  what  to  do.  He  was  engaged  to  dine  at  Father 
Martin's  at  five,  and  it  was  yet  but  midday.  He  strolled 
down  the  fields  to  the  sea,  and  entered  the  fisherman's 
cottage.  There  was  no  one  there  but  Mona.  The 
child  had  grown,  and  was  passing  over  the  borderland 
into  self-consciousness.      He  said:  — 

"  How  de  do  ?  " 

The  frightened  child  courtesied  and  blushed;  he  got 
a  little  ashamed  of  himself,  and  said  kindly:  — 

''  Is  this  my  little  Mona  ?  Dear  me,  how  tall  you  are 
grown  !      Where  are  they  all?" 

'^Up  at  the  wedding,  sir,"  she  said  demurely;  ''but 
I'll  call  father."     She  was  glad  to  go. 

She  went  to  the  door,  and  gave  a  view-hallo,  wliich 
was  answered  far  down  the  beach.  Meanwhile,  Luke, 
not  knowing  what  to  say,  began  to  examine  the  rocks 
and  shingle,  and  tried  to  recall  old  times.     But  the  old 


THE   STRANGER   AND    HIS   GODS  237 

times  were  sliy  of  the  stranger  and  refused  to  come 
l)ack.  At  last,  the  fisherman  came,  struggling  and 
panting ;  and,  after  a  few  salutations,  the  old  pet  boat 
was  again  on  the  deep.  There  was  a  faded  sunshine, 
like  dull  gold,  on  sea  and  land,  and  Luke  pulled  through 
the  sunlit  waves  without  seeing  them.  Then,  a  mile  or 
so  from  land,  he  shipped  the  oars  in  the  old  way,  and 
lay  back  in  the  stern.  No  use,  Luke,  no  use  !  Land 
and  sea  are  the  same;  but  not  the  same.  There  is  the 
same  inextinguishable  loveliness  on  sky  and  wave. 
Tiiere  are  the  brown  cliffs  and  the  purple  heather ; 
there  are  the  sheep  and  the  young  lambs  of  spring ;  but 
oh,  how  desolate,  how  lonely  ! 

'-'■  What  has  come  over  the  country  ? "  asked  Luke. 
"  I  could  not  believe  in  such  a  change  in  such  a  short 
time.      It  is  a  land  of  desolation  and  death." 

Ay,  indeed,  for  Nature,  jealous  mother,  has  turned  a 
cold,  icy  stare  on  her  recreant  son !  He  has  abandoned 
her,  and,  like  a  woman  as  she  is,  she  must  have  her 
revenge.  And  here  it  is !  She  has  disrobed  and  dis- 
limned  herself.  She  has  taken  all  the  colour  out  of  her 
face,  out  of  her  seas  and  cloutls,  and  she  shows  the  blank, 
white  visage  and  the  irresponsive  stare  of  a  corpse.  She 
can  never  be  the  same  again  to  him.  He  lias  abandoned 
her  for  other  loves — for  the  trim  and  ])ainte(l  and  artifi- 
cial beauty  of  Lngland,  and  she  hates  him.  He  put  down 
his  hand  into  the  sea  Avith  the  old  gesture,  but  drew  it 
back  in  pain.  He  thought  the  cold  wave  had  bit  him. 
He  pidled  back  dreamily  to  the  shore.  The  old  fisher- 
man met  him  to  take  up  tlie  boat. 

"  Where  is  Mona  ?  "  he  said. 

But  Mona,  the  sunny-haired  child,  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen. 

Only  four  sat  down  to  dinner  in  the  neat,  tastefid 
parlour  at  Seaview  Cottage.  Father  Martin  introduced 
Luke  to  Father  Meade,  the  successor  at  Gortnagoshel 
to  dead  Father  Tim.  Fatlier  Cussen,  the  Canon's  new 
curate,  he  had  met  at  the  wedding.      A  cloud  hung  over 


238  LUKE   DELMECtE 

the  party.  The  "  Inseparables  "  were  separated.  Death 
and  the  Bishop  had  done  it,  and  Father  Martin  was 
sad. 

"  A  change  since  you  were  here,  Luke,"  he  said. 
"  Dear  me !  do  you  remember  how  we  coached  you  for 
the  Canon's  dinner?" 

"Yes,"  said  Luke;  "there's  nothing  but  change 
here,  and  for  the  worse.  The  country  appears  to 
me  to  have  sunk  into  a  condition  of  hopeless  men- 
dicancy." 

"  Do  you  perceive  so  great  a  change  in  three  years?" 
said  Father  Cussen. 

"  Yes,"  said  Luke.  "  I  cannot  tell  you  how  the  pite- 
ous whining  of  those  beggars  shocked  me  this  morning. 
This  indiscriminate  charity,  which  means  universal 
mendicancy,  appears  to  be  unreasonable  and  uneco- 
nomic." 

"  You  did  not  say  '  unchristian '  ?  "  gasped  Father 
Meade. 

"  N-no  !  "  said  Luke. 

"  Because  it  isn't,"  said  Father  Meade.  "  There  now 
for  you,  my  young  man  !     Because  it  isn't !  " 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Luke,  who  was  not  in  his  argu- 
mentative mood  ;  and,  indeed,  he  thought  the  poor  old 
man  quite  an  unworthy  antagonist. 

"  Because  it  isn't !  "  said  Father  Meade  again,  aggres- 
sively. "  Whatever  you  say  about  your  political  econ- 
omy, which,  I  suppose,  you  have  picked  up  in  England, 
where  every  poor  man  is  a  criminal,  we  love  the  poor 
in  Ireland,  and  will  always  keep  'em  with  us!" 

"  Pretty  safe  prophecy.  Father,"  said  Luke,  who 
rather  disdained  arguing  on  such  a  subject.  "  Never- 
theless, I  totally  object  to  indiscriminate  alms-giving 
as  calculated  to  miss  its  object,  and  degenerate  into 
culpable  sanction  of  the  vicious  and  dishonest." 

"  Fine  language,  fine  language,  me  young  friend ; 
but  suppose  you  turned  away  a  saint  from  your  door, 
or,  say,  our  Divine  Lord  Himself,  how  would  yoa 
feel?" 


THE   STRANGER  AND   HIS   GODS  239 

"Uncomfortable,"  said  Luke;  "but  I  never  heard  of 
such  a  thing  as  possible." 

"  Well,  I  did,  and  what  is  more,  I  was  the  guilty  one 
meself,  may  God  forgive  me  !  " 

This  was  delightful.  Luke  hardly  expected  such  a 
pleasure  as  to  meet  the  supernatural  so  closely,  face  to 
face.  He  flicked  away  tlie  crumbs  from  his  coat  and 
settled  himself  to  listen. 

"  You'd  like  to  hear  it  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Luke,  smiling. 

"  Well,"  said  the  old  man,  his  face  kindling,  and  his 
whole  manner  assuming  a  tone  of  deep  reverence,  "  it 
happened  to  me  twice  ;  the  third  time,  if  I  am  forget- 
ful of  God's  warning,  will  be  my  last.  A  few  years 
ago  I  was  sitting  at  dinner,  when  the  door-bell  was 
rung  violently.  I  had  had  a  busy  day  and  I  was  fairly 
bothered  from  beggars.  I  resolved  that,  come  what 
would,  nothing  should  tempt  me  to  give  another  penny 
that  day.  I  watched  the  tongue  of  the  bell  wagging, 
and  I  said  to  meself  :  '  That'll  do,  me  bo}'  !  '  Just 
then  came  a  second  pull,  and  I  thought  the  bell  was 
down.  I  jumped  up  angrily  and  went  to  the  door. 
It  was  almost  dusk.  There  was  a  tall,  gray  figure  in 
the  porch.  He  had  no  head-covering,  but  he  had  a  red 
muffler  round  his  neck  and  a  kind  of  belt  or  cord  around 
his  waist.  He  handed  me  a  letter  ,  1  didn't  look  at  it, 
but  handed  it  back  without  a  word.  Without  a  word 
the  figure  bowed  and  passed  down  the  walk  into  the 
road.  I  went  back  to  my  dinner.  No  !  I  couldn't 
touch  a  bit.  The  figure  haunted  me.  I  put  on  my  hat 
and  rushed  out.  There  wasn't  a  sign  of  him  to  be  seen. 
I  could  see  the  road  from  my  wicket  for  a  mile  or  so 
in  each  direction.  1  looked  up  and  down.  'J'here  was 
no  one  visible.  I  strolled  up  to  the  police  barrack. 
They  are  alwa3's  on  the  lookout.  No  ;  no  one  of  that 
description  had  passed.  I  went  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion to  the  forge.  No  ;  the  boys  liad  seen  no  one.  I 
came  back,  uneasy  enough  in  my  mind,  I  can  tell  ye !  " 

"  Whom  do  you  suppose  it  to  have  been  ?  "  asked  Luke. 


240  LUKE   DELMEGE 

"  St.  Francis  himself,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Within 
a  week  I  was  down  with  the  worst  fit  of  sickness  I  ever 
had." 

"  And  the  —  a  —  second  apparition  ?  "  said  Luke, 
humouring  the  old  man. 

''  The  second  was  in  Dublin,"  said  the  old  man, 
solemnly.  "  I  was  returning  from  the  summer  holi- 
days, and  had  little  money  left.  I  was  strolling  along 
the  quay  from  the  Four  Courts  to  the  Bridge,  and, 
with  a  young  lay  friend,  had  been  examining  the  pile 
of  books  outside  a  second-hand  bookshop.  Just  before 
we  came  to  where  a  side-lane  opened  on  the  quay,  a  tail, 
dark  man  accosted  me.  He  Avas  white  as  death,  and 
had  a  look  of  untold  suffering  in  his  face.  Again,  like 
my  former  visitor,  he  said  nothing,  but  mutely  held 
out  his  hand.  I  shook  my  head  and  passed  on  ;  but  in 
a  moment  I  recollected  myself,  and  wheeled  round. 
There  was  the  long  quay,  stretcliing  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach.  Not  a  trace  of  him  !  I  hurried  back  and 
spoke  to  the  book-dealer,  whom  I  had  left  standing  at 
his  stall.  He  had  not  seen  him.  I  said  no  more  ;  but 
at  dinner  I  interrogated  my  young  friend. 

"  '  Did  you  notice  a  man  that  stopped  us  on  the  quay  ■''' 

"'Yes,'  he  said  ;   '  I  did.' 

" '  Did  you  think  now  that  he  appeared  to  be  in 
pain  ? ' 

" '  I  never  saw  such  a  face  of  suffering  before,'  he 
said. 

"  '  Did  he  —  now,'  I  tried  to  say,  unconsciously,  '  did 
he  remind  you  of  any  one  in  particular?'  'Well,'  the 
young  man  replied,  '  if  I  may  say  it,  he  reminded  me 
awfully  of  our  Lord  !  '  In  three  days  I  was  on  the  flat 
of  my  back  again,  and  no  one  thought  I  could  ever 
recover.     The  third  time  —  " 

"Well,  the  third  time  ?"  queried  Luke,  smiling  in- 
credulously at  the  old  priest. 

"  The  third  time  Avon't  come  if  the  Lord  leaves  me 
my  senses,"  said  the  old  man. 

It  was  really  delightful  to  Luke  to  be  brought  into 


THE   STRANGER   AND   HIS   GODS  241 

sucli  immediate  contact  with  medifiBvalism.  What  a 
splendid  story  for  the  salon  !  He  would  make  the 
"  Master's  "  hair  stand  on  end.  And  perhaj^s  Olivette 
would  make  her  Franciscan  pilo'rimage  to  Ireland 
instead  of  Assisi.     Who  knows? 

There  was  no  further  discussion.  The  two  guests 
went  away  early.     Luke  and  Father  Martin  were  alone. 

"  I  make,'  said  the  former,  "  the  most  frantic  resolu- 
tions not  to  be  tempted  into  discussion  in  Ireland  ; 
because,  altliough  1  have  subdued  our  national  tendency 
to  hysterics,  I  cannot  be  always  sure  that  my  oj)ponent 
has  acquired  the  same  self-command,'' 

"■  You  did  very  well,"  said  Fatlier  Martin,  dryly. 

"  Yes,  indeed  !  but  I  was  afraid  the  old  gentleman 
might  prove  aggressive,  he  took  such  a  tone  at  first.'* 

'■'■  It  was  fortunate  that  we  did  not  stray  into  further 
discussion,  particularly  on  the  relativity  of  races.  We 
should  have  had  a  most  magnificent  blow-up  from 
Father  Gussen,  who  declares  that  everything  evil  comes 
from  Fngland." 

"•  Of  course  :  he  hasn't  been  yet  out  of  his  country," 
said  Luke.  "  You  must  see  England  close  at  liand  and 
Ireland  in  perspective  to  understand  the  vast  and  radi- 
cal difference." 

"•'He  has  only  just  returned  from  England,"  said 
Father  Martin. 

"  A  flying  visit  ?  " 

"No  ;  a  holiday  lasting  over  seven  years." 

"  It  is  incomprehensible,"  said  Luke.  "■  Why,  his 
accent — " 

"  He  lias  retained  his  native  Doric,  and  it  sits  well  on 
as  eloquent  a  tongue  as  ever  you  heard." 

"Tlien  lie  cannot  have  had  experience  of  the  better 
side  of  English  life,"  said  Luke.  "  I'm  sure  it  is  onlv 
since  my  pro  —  removal  to  Aylesburgh  that  I  have  come 
to  see  tlie  many  and  very  beautiful  traits  of  the  English 
character.      It  seems  to  me  we  have  such  a  lot  to  learn." 

"  For  example  ?  "  said  Father  Martin,  mildly. 

"  Well,   lake  Ohureh    matters.      You,  here,  have  no 

1.  n. 


242  LUKE  DELMEGE 

public  services  worth  naming  —  no  great  celebrations, 
no  processions,  no  benedictions,  no  great  ceremonial  tu 
enliven  the  faith  by  striking  the  fancy  of  the  people  — " 

"You  mean  we  don't  put  every  benediction  in  the 
newspaper,  and  every  presentation  of  a  gold  watch  or  a 
purse  of  money  ?  " 

"  Well,  no  ;  perhaps  that's  overdone.  But  now  I've 
learned  so  much  from  contact  with  Anglicans.  I  have 
learned,  first  of  all,  to  esteem  my  college  career  as  so 
much  wasted  time — " 

"  I  thought  you  were  First  of  First '? "  interposed 
Father  Martin,  wickedly. 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Luke,  wincing  ;  "  but,  my  dear 
Father,  who  cares  over  there  for  our  insular  distinc- 
tions ?  Then  I  have  learned  that  our  theological  course 
is  about  as  wise  as  a  course  in  theosophy  and  occultism  ; 
nay,  less  wise,  because  tliese  subjects  are  discussed  some- 
times ;  theology,  as  we  understand  it,  never  !  No  one 
ever  dreams  to-day  in  England  of  making  a  frontal  at- 
tack on  our  recognized  positions.  They  simply  ignore 
us.  Look  at  all  the  trouble  we  had  in  those  two  trea- 
tises on  the  Trinity  and  the  Incarnation  !  It  was  labour 
wasted  ;  water  flung  on  the  sands  — " 

"  I  have  read  somewhere  lately,"  interrupted  Father 
Martin,  "  that  five  or  six  Anglican  bishops,  and  a  very 
large  percentage  of  the  clergy,  are  Unitarians." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"I  should  say  your  Trinity  and  Incarnation  would 
come  in  well  there." 

"You  don't  quite  understand,"  said  Luke,  loftily. 
"  These  —  well  —  painful  subjects  are  never  alluded  to 
in  polite  society.  They  are  gently  tabooed.  Conver- 
sation turns  on  the  higher  levels  of  humanitarianism 
and  positivism,  instead  of  raging  in  endless  vortices  of 
controversy." 

"  And  the  sum  total  of  this  new  dogma  is  ?  " 

"  Seek  the  God  in  man  ;  not  man  in  God  !  "  said  Luke, 
grandly.  "  Work,  toil,  suffer  in  the  great  cause  —  the 
elevation  and  perfection  of  the  race." 


THE   STRANGER  AND   HIS   GODS  243 

"You  saw  that  cloud,  passing  there  across  the  Wack 
hill  ?  "  said  Father  Martin. 

"  Yes,"  said  Luke. 

"  That  is  your  humanity,  its  history  and  its  im- 
portance." 

"But  the  Divine  immanence  in  man  —  the  spirit  of 
genius,  the  elation  of  duty,  the  rapture  of  righteousness 
—  all  the  signs  of  what  the  Jewish  prophet  called 
'  the  Lord's  controversy ' —  are  these  nothing  in  the 
eternities  ?  " 

"  That's  all  foolish  jargon,"  said  Father  INIartin.  "  I 
have  been  there,  and  I  know  it  all.  But  if  you  want 
to  make  your  gods  out  of  a  few  wretched  bipeds,  who 
eat  carrion,  and  drink  Oriental  drugs  to  keep  the 
wretched  life  in  them,  and  clothe  themselves  in  unlovely 
garments  by  night  and  snore  unto  the  stars,  Fm  not 
with  you.     Fd  prefer  the  gods  of  Greece." 

"  But  you  don't  see,"  said  Luke,  impatiently.  "  The 
race  is  evolving  through  possibly  the  last  cycle  of 
human  evolution  towards  the  Divine.  Shall  we  not 
lend  a  hand  here  ?  Is  it  not  clearly  England's  destiny 
to  bring  all  humanity,  even  the  most  degraded,  into  the 
happy  circle  of  civilization,  and  evoke  from  Afglian  and 
Ashantee  the  glory  of  the  slumbering  godhead  ?  " 

"  Good  heavens  I  why  didn't  you  say  all  that  an  hour 
ago?  Fd  give  up  my  next  holiday  at  Lisdoonvarna  to 
hear  you  say  that  before  Cussen." 

"I  shouldn't  mind,"  said  Luke,  grandly. 

"And  you  really  think  England  has  got  a  Divine 
mission  ?  I  never  think  of  England  but  as  in  that 
dream  of  Piranesi  —  vast  Gothic  halls,  machinery,  pul- 
leys, and  all  moving  the  mighty,  rolling  mechanism 
that  is  crushing  into  a  dead  monotony  all  the  beauty 
and  picturesqueness  of  the  world." 

"  That  is,  bringing  it  up  to  a  level  of  civilization  and 
culture,"  said  J>uke. 

"And  why  did  the  Almighty  create  the  Afghan  and 
the  Ashantee,  to  be  turned,  in  course  of  time,  into  a 
breeched  and  bloated  Briton?     If  England's  civilization 


244  '  LUKE  DELMEGE 

was  that  of  Catholicism,  I  can  understand  you.  But 
even  if  it  conserved,  raised  up,  illuminated  fallen  races, 
as  the  Spaniards  did,  and  the  Portuguese,  it  might  be 
yet  doubtful  if  there  was  a  Divine  mission  to  break  up 
noble  traditions  for  the  sake  of  a  little  more  refinement, 
where  England's  mission  is  to  destroy  and  corrupt  every- 
thing she  touches  —  " 

"  Now,  now,  Father  Martin,  this  is  all  congenital  and 
educational  prejudice.  Look  at  your  own  country  and 
see  how  backward  it  is." 

"  What  you  call  congenital  prejudice,"  said  Father 
Martin,  gravely,  "  I  call  faith.  It  is  our  faith  that 
makes  us  hate  and  revolt  from  English  methods.  To 
the  mind  of  every  true  Irishman,  England  is  simply  a 
Frankenstein  monster,  that  for  over  seven  hundred 
years  has  been  coveting  an  immortal  soul.  He  has  had 
his  way  everywhere  but  in  Ireland  ;  therefore  he  hates 
us." 

"  No  use,"  said  Luke,  who  had  hoped  for  sympathy 
at  least  from  the  grave  and  learned  man.  "  No  use  ! 
Did  you  ever  read  the  Atta  Troll  f  " 

"  Never  !  " 

"  Nor  any  of  Heine's  ?  " 

"  One  or  two  trifles,"  said  Father  Martin  indifferently. 
"  Very  little  light  or  music  came  out  of  the  Matratzen- 
grufC' 

"•  Did  you  read  the  Laches  ?  We  have  had  it  for  dis- 
cussion lately.  The  '  Master  of  Balliol '  was  down,  and 
threw  extraordinary  light  on  the  philosophy  of  Plato. 
Why  isn't  Plato  read  in  our  colleges  ?  " 

"There  is  no  time  for  such  amusement  amongst  more 
serious  matters.  Plato  is  a  huge  bundle  of  sophisms, 
without  a  grain  or  scintilla  of  solid  wisdom." 

"  Dear  me  !  Father  Martin,  I  really  didn't  expect  all 
this  from  you.  I  thought  that  you,  at  least,  would 
sympathize  with  every  effort  towards  the  higher  light." 

"The  higher  light?  My  poor  boy,  you  are  dazzled 
with  a  little  display  of  green  and  yellow  fireworks. 
You  don't  see  the  calm,  patient,  eternal  stars  beyond." 


THE   STFvANGEE   AND   HIS   GODS  245 

Luke  went  home  moody  and  perplexed.  He  had  been 
positively  certain  that  he  was  on  the  right  track  ;  that 
the  world  was  to  be  conquered  by  the  world's  weapons  — 
learning,  knowledge,  light,  science,  literature,  seized 
by  the  Church,  and  used  with  deadly  effect  against  the 
world.  This  he  had  been  taught  everywhere  —  by  the 
Catbolic  press,  by  men  of  "  light  and  leading "  in  the 
Cliurch,  by  liis  own  convictions.  But  clearly,  opinion 
on  the  subject  was  not  quite  unanimous.  But  then  this 
is  Ireland  —  quaint,  arcliaic,  conservative,  mediseval. 

"  I  wish  I  were  home,"  said  Luke.  Home  was  Ayles- 
burgh. 

'^  My  young  friend  has  just  taken  his  first  false  step," 
said  Father  Martin  to  his  books ;  and,  strange  to  say,  it 
was  before  a  huge,  thirteen-volurae  Bekker's  Plato  lie 
soliloquized.  "  Yes  !  "  he  said,  as  if  in  defiance  to  the 
mighty  ghost,  "yes!  the  first  false  step  —  tlie  irpoirov 
'^evSo'i,  my  most  learned  friend.  And  he  has  taken 
Father  Tim's  advice  with  a  vengeance.  He  holds  his 
head  very  high." 

Luke  entered  the  farmyard.  The  sounds  of  mighty 
revelling  came  from  the  lighted  barn;  the  swift  music 
of  the  violin,  the  pattering  of  many  feet,  the  loud  laugh. 
Over  in  a  corner,  two  farmers,  a  little  balmy,  were  pro- 
fessing unbounded  and  everlasting  friendship,  wliilst 
debating  about  a  few  shillings  of  the  marriage  money 
in  a  prospective  match.  Here  and  there  a  few  cou[)les 
strayed  around,  enjoying  the  beautiful  night,  and  pos- 
sibly speculating  about  their  own  futures.  From  a 
neighbouring  liedge  sang  Philomel !  — no,  that's  not  it ! 
From  a  neighbouring  haystack  came  a  mighty  chorus 
sacred  to  the  groves  and  Bacchus  :  — 

Ohe  !  Ohe ! 
Evoij !  Evoe  1 
lacche  1  lacche  I 

Luke  knew  it  well,  and  its  accompaniment :  — 

''  Poetic    for    Bacchus,    ye    d — d    young    numskulls. 


246  LUKE  DELMEGE 

Believe  it  on  the  authority  of  a  Trinity  College  man, 
banished  for  his  sins  to  Bffiotia." 

It  was  the  bugle-call  from  play,  uttered  by  the  old 
Kerry  hedge  schoolmaster.  Luke  almost  felt  the  swish 
of  the  rattan.  It  was  also  the  vesper  song  of  the  same, 
after  he  had  worshipped  his  god  and  his  steps  were 
unsteady. 

"  There  is  no  use,  mother,  in  my  thinking  of  sleeping 
here  to-night,"  said  Luke. 

"  Indeed  I  "'  said  the  mother ;  "  there  is  a  little  music 
in  the  barn  —  " 

"  There  are  two  fellows  stupidly  drunk  there  in  the 
yard,"  he  said,  "  and,  I  suppose,  several  more  around 
the  grounds." 

"  Wisha  !  I  suppose  they  took  a  little  taste  too  much, 
and  it  overcome  them  ;  but  there  was  never  such  a  wed- 
din'  in  the  barony  before  —  " 

"  ril  go  down  to  the  Canon  and  ask  a  bed." 

"  Do,  alanna  !  do.  Indeed  you  wouldn't  get  much 
sleep  to-night  here." 

And  mother  leaned  over  on  the  settle  to  finish  her 
Rosary. 

Luke  and  the  Canon  —  or  should  it  be  the  Canon  and 
Luke  ?  —  dined  in  solitary  state  on  Sunday.  It  was  a 
little  lonely,  but  dignified.  Luke  and  his  host  had  now 
many  ideas  in  common  about  things  in  general,  and 
especially  about  the  very  vexed  question  of  which  seven 
centuries  of  the  united  wisdom  of  statesmen,  legislators, 
political  economists,  etc.,  have  failed  to  find  a  solution. 
The  Canon  had  found  it.  He  had  turned  his  parish 
into  a  happy  Arcady.  His  houses  were  neat  and  trim; 
his  people  comfortable;  no  poverty,  no  distress.  "All 
these  unhappy  mendicants  at  your  —  ha  —  sister's  M'ed- 
ding  were  imported.  There's  not  even  one  —  ha  —  pro- 
fessional mendicant  in  my  parish." 

"  I  hope,"  said  Luke,  "  that,  now  that  you  have  estab- 
lished this  happy  condition  of  things,  the  intellectual 
progress  of  the  people  will  keep  pace  with  their  material 
prosperity." 


THE   STRANGER   AND   HIS   GODS  247 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  the  Canon,  blandly  ;  "  in  fact,  I  have 
only  to  suggest  it  —  and  —  " 

Turn!  turn! !  turn!!!  Turn!  turn  1 1  turn!  1 1  crashed 
out  the  big  drum  beneath  the  windows,  the  shrill  fifes 
squeaked,  and  the  scaffold  song  of  the  Manchester 
martyrs,  attuned  to  the  marching  song  of  American  bat- 
talions, broke  on  the  ear,  whilst  a  vast  multitude  surged 
and  thronged  along  the  road  that  swept  by  the  Canon's 
grounds.  The  windows  rattled  under  the  reverberation, 
and  continued  rattling,  for  the  band  had  stopped  oppo- 
site the  rectory  to  serenade  its  occupant,  and  charitably 
infuse  a  little  patriotism  into  liim.  He  was  stricken 
dumb  with  surprise  and  indignation.  For  ten  minutes 
the  thunderous  music  w^ent  on,  punctuated  now  and  again 
with  cheei'ing,  and  then  the  ci-owd  moved  away.  Not 
far,  however.  They  had  taken  possession  of  the  national 
school-liouse,  and  were  holding  a  Sunday  meeting. 

It  took  some  time  for  the  Canon  to  recover  his  equa- 
nimity. He  was  quite  pale  with  annoyance.  He  tapped 
the  mahogany  gently  with  his  polished  nails,  and  said 
in  a  pitiful  way  to  Luke  :  — 

"  Isn't  that  very  sad  ?     Isn't  it  pitiable  ?     What  an 

—  ha — object-lesson  for  you,  my  dear  young  friend, 
about  the  condition  of  this  distracted  country  !  " 

Luke  could  say  nothing  but  stare  at  tlie  fire,  where 
the  logs  were  blazing,  for  the  Avinter  lingered  yet. 
There  tiiey  sat  silent,  while  now  and  again  a  burst  of 
cheering  came  up  from  the  school-room,  where  Father 
Cussen  was  haranguing  the  mighty  audience. 

"  Just  think  of  the  grave  impropriety  involved  in 
this,"  said  the  Canon.  '^  There  is  the  —  ha  —  desecra- 
tion of  the  peaceful  Sabbath  evening ;  the  exciting  of 

—  ha  —  dangerous  passions,  and  that  young  clergyman 
has  been  so  forgetful  of  the  duties  of  his  sacred  ollice 
as  to  usurp  my  —  ha  —  legitimate  authority,  and  take 
possession  of  mi/  schools  without  the  least  reference  to 


me." 


"  Whatever  be  thought  of  the  political  aspect  of  the 
question,"  said  Luke,  "  I  think  he  should  have  liad  your 


248  LUKE   DELMEGE 

permission  about  the  schools.  I  dare  say  there's  some 
explanation.  But  are  these  people  the  beneficiaries  of 
your  kindly  exertions  in  their  behalf?" 

"•  Some.  Not  all.  This  young  clergyman's  theory  is 
that  the  condition  of  the  people  is  insecure,  notwith- 
standing my  exertions,  and,  I  am  privileged  to  say,  my 
influence  with  the  landlords.  Why,  no  landlord  or 
agent  would  dare  interfere  with  my  people.  I  need 
only  lift  my  hand  and  they  would  retire." 

"The  whole  thing  is  very  sad,"  said  Luke;  "I  wish 
I  were  back  in  England." 

Next  day,  his  good  mother  showed  him  with  pride 
and  gratification  the  numberless  presents  that  had  been 
showered  upon  Lizzie.  Lizzie  helped.  For  a  quiet 
young  lady,  as  she  was,  no  one  would  have  expected  a 
deep  and  dreadful  cut. 

"  This  is  from  Father  Pat,"  she  said. 

"  God  bless  him,"  said  her  mother. 

"  And  this  from  the  Canon." 

"I  wouldn't  doubt  him,"  said  Mike  Delmege. 

"  And  Father  Martin  sent  this  beautiful  set  of  break- 
fast ware  ;  and  Father  Meade,  whom  we  hardly  know, 
this  biscuitaire  ;  and  the  nuns  of  the  Good  Shepherd 
these  lovely  books  ;  and  our  new  curate.  Father  Cussen, 
this  History  of  Ireland — " 

Very  true,  Lizzie  ;  very  true  ;  Father  Luke  Del- 
mege's  valuable  present  to  his  sister  is  conspicuous  by 
its  absence. 

"  You'll  be  able  to  tell  Margery  all  about  the  wed- 
din',"  said  the  good  mother. 

"I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  hardly  time  to  call,"  said 
Luke  ;  "I've  overstayed  my  leave  of  absence  already." 


CHAPTER   XX 

ECLECTIC   CATHOLICISM 

It  is  quite  certain  tliat  Luke  Delmege  regarded  these 
four  years  at  Aylesburgh  as  by  far  the  happiest  of  his 
life.  Here  he  had  everything  that  a  fine  intellect  and 
rather  refined  taste  could  require.  He  had  leisure  for 
thought  in  the  intervals  of  almost  unintermitting  work  ; 
or,  rather,  this  ceaseless  work  supplied  material  for 
thought,  which  again  interacted  and  created  its  own 
outcome  in  ceaseless  work.  He  gave  himself  a  day's 
recreation  every  Monday,  after  the  great  Sunday  ser- 
mon. At  least,  he  took  out  Pio,  the  great  brown  re- 
triever, and  spent  the  day  in  the  country.  One  of  the 
relics  of  this  time  is  before  the  writer  in  the  shape  of 
a  bamboo  cane,  notched  and  indented  by  Pio's  teeth, 
where  he  dragged  it  from  the  river.  But  on  these  ex- 
cursions by  the  lonely  river,  the  ever  active  mind  was 
at  work  —  now  on  the  subject  of  the  next  sermon,  now 
on  the  conversation  the  last  night  at  tlie  salon  ;  again, 
on  the  many,  very  many  societies;  for  tlie  general  amel- 
ioration of  the  race,  of  wliicli  he  was  eitlier  an  active 
or  an  honorary  member.  Tliese  included  a  society  for 
the  rescue  of  discharged  prisoners,  a  socit'ty  for  the  sup- 
pression of  public  vice,  a  society  for  the  liousing  of  the 
poor,  a  society  for  the  purification  of  tlie  stage,  etc., 
etc. 

"  I  don't  see  your  name.  Father  Delmege,'*  said  the 
dry  old  rector,  "on  the  committee  for  making  states- 
men truthful,  and  introducing  the  Seventh  Command- 
ment on  the  Stock  Exchange." 

249 


250  LUKE  DELMEGE 

Luke  concluded  that  the  old  man  was  jealous.  The 
old  man  had  a  good  deal  of  temptation  to  become  so. 
He  was  nobody.     Luke  overshadowed  him  utterly. 

"  You'll  preach  at  Vespers  on  Sunday  evening,  of 
course,  Father  Delmege  ?  " 

"  I  should  be  most  happy  indeed ;  but  it  is  Dr.  Drys- 
dale's  turn  on  Sunday  evening." 

"  Oh  !  how  unfortunate  !  And  the  Lefevrils  are  com- 
ing.    Could  you  not  effect  an  exchange?  " 

"I  should  most  gladly  do  so;  but^  you  know,  the 
rector  would  hardly  like  the  suggestion." 

"Do  try,  Father.  It's  really  more  important  than 
you  imagine  or  I  can  explain.  I'm  sure,  if  you  knew 
how  very  important  it  is  —  " 

"I  fear  it  is  quite  impossible,  Mrs.  Bluett  —  " 

"  Oh  dear !  The  doctor  is  such  a  dear  old  soul,  but 
he  is  dry.  There,  I've  made  a  horrid  pun;  but,  dear 
me,  he  is  so  tedious,  and  I  shouldn't  care,  but  of  all 
evenings  —  " 

No  wonder  Luke  worked  at  his  sermons !  He  sat  at 
his  desk  at  ten  o'clock  on  Tuesday  morning,  and  worked 
steadily  to  midday.  By  Friday  evening  he  had  written 
fifteen  pages  of  a  sermon.  On  Saturday  he  committed 
it  to  memory,  and,  without  the  omission  or  alteration 
of  a  word,  he  delivered  it  on  Sunday  morning,  at  the 
Gospel  of  the  MUsa  Cantata,  or  at  Vespers  in  the  even- 
ing. And  during  these  four  years  he  never  ventured 
to  speak  publicly  without  having  made  this  careful  and 
elaborate  preparation.  In  after  years  he  often  wondered 
at  himself,  but  admitted  that  he  dared  not  do  otherwise. 
He  never  knew  who  might  be  listening  to  him  in  this 
strange  land,  where  every  one  is  so  interested  in  reli- 
gion, because  every  man  is  his  own  pope ;  and  so  unin- 
terested, because  he  cares  so  little  what  all  the  other 
popes,  even  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  may  hold  or 
teach.  But  the  discipline  was  good  for  Luke.  It  gave 
him  a  facility  in  speaking  which  lasted  through  life. 

Now,  Dr.  Drysdale  was  not  jealous.  He  was  too  old, 
or  wise,  or  holy,  to  be  aught  but  amused,  ay,  indeed, 


ECLECTIC    CATHOLICISM  251 

and  anxious,  about  his  young  confrere.  Amused  he 
was,  and  very  much  amused,  at  the  Celtic  impetuosity 
with  which  Luke  flung  himself  into  every  kind  of  work. 
His  strenuous  manner,  generous,  self-sacrificing,  was 
such  a  contrast  to  his  own  placidity  that  it  was  quite 
interesting"  in  the  be<?innint''.  Then  it  became  a  matter 
of  grave  concern  to  the  gentle  old  priest. 

"  That  is  a  valual)le  and  interesting  book,"  he  would 
say,  pushing  over  a  volume  by  some  great  Catholic  author 
to  Luke,  for  lie  was  a  member  of  St.  Anselm's  Society, 
and  this  was  one  of  the  societies  of  which  Luke  was  not 
a  member.  "  Take  it  to  your  room  and  read  it  at  your 
leisure." 

Luke  would  take  it;  but  Mill  and  Heine  and  Emer- 
son had  got  hold  of  him  just  now,  and  he  would  bring 
it  back  uncut  after  a  few  days,  with  a  remark  that  was 
meant  to  be  pregnant  and  suggestive  :  — 

"All  the  poetry  of  the  world  is  in  the  Catholic 
Church  ;  and  all  the  literature  of  the  world  outside 
it." 

Or  :  "  It  seems  to  me  that  the  whole  of  our  philoso- 
phy consists  of  junks  of  indigestible  propositions,  gar- 
nished with  syllogisms  of  froth." 

The  rector  would  rub  his  chin  and  say,  "Humph  !" 
which  is  eloquent,  too. 

On  Sunday  afternoon  the  rector  would  say,  "  Spare 
me  half  an  hour,  Father  Delmege,  and  help  me  at  tlie 
altar  !  " 

The  "Altar"  was  a  privileged  one  in  this  sense,  that 
no  one,  not  even  the  prfsi(U'nt  (»f  the  Altar  Society,  was 
allowed  to  touch  it  for  any  purpose  wliatsoever.  The 
arrangements  of  tlie  cloths,  the  vases  and  their  flowers 
—  all  were  the  rector's  exclusive  province,  where  no 
one  dared  interfere.  But  he  took  es])ecial  [)ride  in  the 
decoration  of  the  high-altar  for  Smidny  evening  Bene- 
diction. It  was  a  labour  of  love  that  extended  over 
three  hours  of  the  Sunday  afternoon.  There  were 
sometimes  from  one  Inmdred  and  twenty  to  a  hundred 
and  fifty  candles  to  be  placed  ready  for  lighting  ;  and 


252  LUKE  DELMEGE 

the  vicar  had  a  fancy  that  there  should  be  a  special 
design  for  each  Benediction.  Then,  as  a  final  touch, 
he  tipped  the  wick  of  each  candle  with  a  preparation  of 
melted  wax  and  paraffin  —  a  chemical  compound  in 
which  he  took  great  pride,  and  he  had  serious  thoughts 
of  patenting  it.  That  chemical  and  its  jam-pot  was  a 
perpetual  source  of  wonder  to  Luke.  I  fear  the  won- 
der was  slightly  contemptuous.  To  see  this  excellent 
old  man.  Doctor  of  Divinity,  Dublin  Reviewer,  corre- 
spondent with  French  and  Italian  philosophers,  studi- 
ously mixing  that  oil  and  wax,  and  then  standing  on  a 
ladder,  as  he  put  up,  and  took  down,  and  rearranged 
candles  and  flowers,  was  a  something  far  beyond  Luke's 
comprehension.  In  after  years,  when  his  eyes  were 
widely  opened,  Luke  dropped  some  bitter  tears  over 
that  jam-pot  and  —  liimself. 

"  Impossible,  sir  !  "  he  would  explain,  in  reply  to  his 
vicar's  invitation.  "I  really  have  something  serious  to 
do.  Can't  you  let  the  ladies  or  the  sacristan  attend  to 
these  things  ?  " 

The  old  man  would  not  reply,  except  to  his  unseen 
Master. 

But  Luke  was  happy,  and  his  great  happiness  was 
in  his  dealino^s  with  converts.  Here  he  had  a  broad 
field  for  learning,  tact,  and  sympathy.  To  lift  these 
trembling  souls  over  the  quagmires  and  shaking  bogs 
of  unbelief  ;  to  enlighten,  cheer,  support  under  all  the 
awful  intellectual  and  spiritual  trials  of  incipient  doubt, 
until  he  had  planted  them  safely  at  his  feet  on  the  firm 
ground  of  Catholic  faith  and  practice  ;  to  witness  their 
almost  exultant  happiness,  when,  the  final  step  being 
taken,  with  closed  eyes  and  gasping  breath,  they  at 
length  found  themselves  in  the  home  of  serene  security ; 
to  open  up  to  their  wondering  vision  all  the  splen- 
dours and  beauties  that  they  had  hitherto  seen  under 
distorting  and  bewildering  lights ;  to  share  in  their 
happiness  and  gratitude,  —  ah  me  !  this  is  ecstasy,  and 
Luke  felt  :  Yes  !  here  is  my  vocation  ;  here  I  have 
found  my  life-work  !     And  if  ever  a  doubt  crossed  his 


ECLECTIC   CATHOLICISM  253 

mind  about  his  studies  at  this  time,  he  hushed  the  com- 
plaining voice  with  the  dogmatic  assurance  :  — 

'•'  The  first  step  towards  conquering  the  enemy  is  to 
enter  the  enemy's  arsenals  and  handle  his  weapons." 

There  were  some  drawbacks,  indeed.  Now  and 
again  some  giddy  girl,  or  some  conceited  Scripture- 
reader,  would  go  through  the  form  of  conversion,  and 
then  "revert."  One  day  a  lady  wished  to  see  him. 
She  was  closely  veiled.  She  insisted  on  being  received 
into  the  Church  then  and  there.  Luke  demurred.  He 
took  her  down  to  the  Convent  of  the  Faithful  Com- 
panions, and  placed  her  for  instruction  under  Reverend 
Mother's  care.  iJ^  felt  quite  proud.  This  was  evi- 
dently a  lady  of  distinction.  A  few  days  later  he 
strolled  down  leisurely  to  ask  after  his  convert.  Rev- 
erend Mother  met  him  with  a  smile. 

"  No  ;  the  lady  had  not  returned.  She  was  a  lunatic, 
who  had  slipped  from  her  mother's  carriage  whilst  her 
mother  was  shopping  ;  and  the  bellman  had  been  ring- 
ing the  city  for  her  since." 

Luke  got  into  a  newspaper  controversy.  There  was 
a  very,  very  High-Church  rector  in  the  neighbourho(Kl. 
He  had  far  more  candles  than  the  mere  Romans,  and 
his  vestments  cost  twice  as  much  as  theirs.  He  re- 
served the  Precious  Blood  (so  he  thought,  poor  man  !), 
and  had  a  special  lunette  made  for  tlie  phial  at  Bene- 
diction. He  gave  awful  penances,  in  imitation  of  the 
primitive  Cliurch,  and  always,  once  or  twice  a  year,  he 
refreshed  his  superlative  orthodoxy  by  a  furious  attack 
on  the  unoffending  Romanists.  Some  of  his  congrega- 
tion were  edified  and  strciigtliened  by  these  violent 
philippics,  especially  a  few  whose  relatives  had  passed 
over  to  Catholicity  and  made  them  "  suspect  "  ;  a  good 
many  were  disgusted,  for,  even  in  Ritualism,  the  Eng- 
lishman asserts  his  individual  freedom  of  thought  ;  but 
most  of  the  congi'cgation  were  amused. 

"  He  doth  protest  too  much,"  they  averred.  "  It  is 
all  on  account  of  that  dog,  Pio,  who  has  the  good  taste 
to  come  to  our  Church  on  Sundays." 


254  LUKE  DELMEGE 

Yes ;  but  not  to  worship.  Pio  had  the  amiable  habit, 
acquired  in  some  mysterious  manner,  of  trotting  down 
to  the  Ritualistic  church  every  Sunday  morning,  and 
there,  posted  at  the  gate,  of  scrutinizing  carefully  every 
face  and  figure  that  passed  in  to  service. 

"  The  Roman  priests  sent  him,"  said  the  vicar,  "  to 
see  if  any  of  their  stray  sheep  had  wandered  into  the 
true  fold." 

But  the  vicar  was  mad.  And  the  Ayleshurgh  Post 
was  just  the  vehicle  for  his  insanity.  Such  scorn,  such 
hatred,  such  cool,  undiluted  contempt  for  "  his  "  parish- 
ioners, "these  Romish  priests,"  were  only  equalled  by 
the  mighty  organs  of  the  sect  elsewhere  ;  and  the  fierce 
philippic  was  generally  followed  by  an  angry  demand 
for  dues  or  tithes  from  "his  parishioners."  The  rector 
read  the  paper  with  a  smile  and  put  the  letter  in  the 
fire.  Not  so  Luke.  Luke  wore  a  good,  broad  seam  of 
white  along  the  fine  red  carpet  in  his  room,  and  a  good, 
broad  path  along  the  tiny  square  of  grass  in  front.  Luke 
was  deep  in  thought,  and  Luke's  thoughts  found  issue 
in  words.  The  excellent  editor  of  the  Ayleshurgh  Post 
had  never  received  such  a  document  before,  even  from 
the  High-Church  vicar.  Deep,  cutting  sarcasm,  quota- 
tions from  Anglican  divines  that  would  make  a  statue 
blush,  refutations  that  were  irrefutable,  and  logical 
sequences  that  were  undenial)le  —  and  all  couched  in 
language  that  seemed  to  set  the  paper  in  a  blaze  !  The 
editor  read  with  a  smile,  and  dropped  the  paper  into 
the  waStepaper  basket,  then  looked  to  see  if  there  were 
danger  of  a  conflagration. 

Luke  went  around  with  his  burning  secret  for  twenty- 
four  hours.  He  expected  to  cause  a  sensation  in  the 
city,  probably  a  large  secession  from  Ritualism,  —  at 
least,  a  long,  fierce,  angry  controversy,  in  which  he,  call- 
ing on  all  his  vast  resources,  would  infallibly  come  out 
as  victor.  The  second  day  was  a  day  of  fever  and  un- 
rest. The  third  morning  came.  There  was  a  second 
saircastic  letter  from  the  High-Churchman,  and  just  a 
little  editorial  note  :  — 


ECLECTIC    CATHOLICISM  255 

"We  have  also  received  a  commuiiicatiou  from  L.  D.  on  this 
interesting  subject.  The  gentleman  knows  well  how  to  use  hi^ 
pen.  Ed.  A.  P." 

As  on  a  former  occasion,  Luke  played  Rugby  football 
around  his  room,  much  to  the  amusement  of  his  rector, 
who  read  that  footnote  with  intelligent  and  compre- 
hensive pleasure,  and  Luke  broke  forth  into  a  hysteri- 
cal soliloquy  :  — 

"  Fair  play  !  British  fair  play  !  They're  the  greatest 
humbugs  and  hypocrites  on  the  face  of  the  earth  !  Here 
is  an  ojien  attack,  uncalled  for,  without  pretence  of  rea- 
son or  exciting  cause.  Here  is  a  reply,  fair,  temperate, 
judicious,  and  lo  !  it  is  suppressed.  It  is  the  old,  old 
story.  They  talk  of  truth  when  they  lie  !  They  talk 
of  religion  when  they  blaspheme  !  They  talk  of  hu- 
manity when  they  rob,  and  plunder,  and  kill  !  They 
talk  of  fair  play  when  they  are  tying  your  hands  to 
smite  you !  "  AVhich  sliows  that  Luke's  exuberant  ad- 
miration of  everything  English  did  sometimes  suffer  a 
pretty  severe  frost-nipping.  He  never  spoke  to  his 
good  rector  on  the  matter.  He  disburdened  his  con- 
science elsewhere. 

"Nothing  reminds  me  so  much  of  what  we  read  about 
the  calm  constancy  and  fortitude  of  the  early  Chris- 
tians," said  the  great  ''Master"  one  of  these  evenings, 
"  as  the  peace  that  seems  to  come  down  and  hover  over 
the  souls  of  recent  converts  to  Catholicism." 

"Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure,"  said  Amiel  Lefevril  ;  "  tlie 
wliole  motive  and  genesis  of  Catholicism  seems  to  be 
found  in  seeking  pleasure  in  pain.  1  consider  our  re- 
ligion higher  and  deeper,  for  that  we  seek  pain  in 
pleasure." 

The  Master  smiled.  His  pupils  were  advancing  in 
Platonism. 

"  This  is  one  reason,"  she  continued,  "  why  I  cannot 
embrace  Roman  Catholicism,  attractive  as  it  otherwise 
is.  It  seems  to  be  founded  on  selfishness.  Its  charity 
is  forever  seeking  a  guerdon,  either  in  *.he  esteem  of 


256  LUKE  DELMEGE 

others  or  in  the  exquisite  sense  of  self-exaltation,  or  in 
the  final  reward  of  a  heaven.  Is  it  not  higher  and 
nobler  and  loftier  to  act  and  think  for  the  abstract  Idea 
of  benefiting  humanity  ?  So  with  prayer.  I  can  under- 
stand prayer  as  an  ecstasy  of  thought  of  the  Infinite ; 
an  uplifting  of  soul  to  the  spheres  ;  a  conscious  merg- 
ing of  the  Ego  in  the  All.  But  your  everlasting  whin- 
ings  for  mercy,  your  prayers  against  the  laws  of  Nature, 
are  unintelligible.  And  as  for  penance,  what  is  it  but 
the  delight  of  pain  —  the  subtle,  emotional  suffering 
that  bathes  the  self-conscious  flagellant  in  an  ecstasy 
of  bliss?" 

"  You  seem,  Miss  Lefevril,"  said  Luke,  timidly,  "  to 
overlook  what  lies  at  the  bottom  of  all  ascetic  practices 
and  prayers  —  the  essential  dogmas  or  truths  of  reli- 
gion." 

"  Oh,"  said  Miss  Amiel,  "  truth  ?  There  is  no  such 
thing,  except  as  an  abstraction.  Hence  I  always  hold 
that  we  are  all  —  that  is,  all  good  people  are  —  practi- 
cally the  same.  And  each  soul  is  at  liberty  to  select  its 
own  beliefs  and  form  an  aggregate  for  itself." 

Luke  looked  wonderingly  at  the  Master,  who  appeared 
to  be  highly  pleased  with  his  pupil.  He  ventured  how- 
ever to  protest. 

"  I  cannot  really  follow  you,  Miss  Lefevril,"  he  said ; 
"  it  seems  to  me  a  logical  sequence  from  no  truth  to  no 
principle." 

"  I  spoke  of  beliefs,"  said  Miss  Amiel.  "  There  is  a 
natural  and  logical  sequence  between  belief  and  princi- 
ple." 

"  And  how  can  there  be  faith  without  an  object  —  and 
that  object,  Truth  ?  "  said  Luke. 

"  Dear  me  I  how  shall  I  explain  ?  "  said  Miss  Amiel. 
"You  know,  of  course,  —  indeed,  I  think  I  have  heard 
you  say  so,  —  that  mathematical  proofs  are  the  most 
perfect?" 

Luke  assented. 

"  That  there  is  nothing  so  certain  as  that  two  straight 
lines  cannot  inclose  a  space  ?  " 


ECLECTIC   CATHOLICISM  257 

Luke  nodded. 

"  And  that  every  point  in  the  circumference  of  a  cir- 
cle is  equidistant  from  the  centre  ?  " 

"  Quite  so  !  " 

"But  these  things  do  not  and  cannot  exist,  except  as 
abstractions  of  the  mind.  Tliere  is  no  objective  truth 
there,  because  there  is  no  object  at  all.  The  same  witli 
all  trutli,  for  all  truth  is  immaterial  and  purely  subjec- 
tive."' 

"  Then  you  don't  believe  in  God  ? "  said  Luke, 
bluntly. 

"■  Oil  dear,  yes.  I  believe  in  my  own  concept  of 
God,  as  do  you  !  " 

"Or  in  hell,  or  in  a  future  life?"  gasped  Luke. 

"  Dear  me  !  yes,  yes,  I  believe  in  hell  —  the  hell  we 
create  for  ourselves  by  misdoing ;  and  the  immortality 
of  myself,  my  soul,  passing  down  through  the  endless 
ages  in  the  immortality  of  my  race !  " 

"  I  regret  to  say,  Miss  Lefevril,  you  can  never  become 
a  Catholic  with  such  ideas  !  " 

"  But  I  am  a  Catholic.  We  are  all  Catholics.  We 
all  have  the  same  spirit.  Mr.  Halleck  is  a  Catholic, 
yet  not  the  same  as  you  —  " 

"  I  beg  pardon.  Mr.  Halleck  is  a  communicant  at 
our  church  and  has  made  profession  of  our  faith." 

"Of  course  he  has.  But  Mr.  Halleck's  subjectivity 
is  not  yours,  or  Mr.  Drysdale's,  or  Mrs.  Bluett's,  or 
mine.  Each  soul  dips  into  the  sea  and  takes  what  it 
can  contain.  Surely,  you  cannot  say  that  these  poor 
people,  who  live  in  Primrose  Lane  and  fre(]uent  your 
church,  and   the   learned   j\h-.    Halleck,  hold  the  same 


9 


subjective  belief 

"So  much  the  worse  for  my  friend  Halleck,  it  tliat 
be  true  I  "  Luke  had  enough  nerve  to  say. 

"Not  at  all  I  He  simjily  is  an  eclectic  Catholic,  as 
we  all  are  —  the  jNIaster,  the  Dean,  Canon  Merritt.  even 

Mr.  ,"  mentioning  the  name  of  his  High-Church 

friend. 

Luke  started  back  in  horror. 


258  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  How  can  you  associate  the  names  of  Mr.  Halleck, 
the  Dean,  Mr.  Merritt,  with  that  —  that  vulgar  man  ?  " 

"•  But,  my  dear  Mr.  Dehnege,  we  are  not  now  speak- 
ing of  vulgarity  and  refinement,  but  of  opinions  — 
thoughts  —  beliefs  —  " 

"  And  the  whole  of  your  beliefs  is  pure  scepticism," 
said  Luke. 

"Not  at  all,"  smiled  Miss  Amiel ;  "you  do  not  under- 
stand. You  really  must  read  Plato  on  Ideas,  until  you 
grasp  the  meaning  of  Subjective  Idealism,  or  what  I 
have  called  eclectic  Catholicism." 

Luke  began  to  feel  that  his  rector  was  right,  and  that 
he  would  be  more  at  home  with  old  John  Godfrey  and 
his  pipe.  But  the  toils  were  around  him,  and,  whilst 
his  faith  was  perfect,  the  grace  of  illumination  was  as 
yet  far  away.  He  was  groping  in  the  dark  vaults  of 
what  he  was  pleased  to  call  "the  enemy's  arsenals." 

Hence,  too,  issued  a  wonderful  sermon  which  Luke 
preached  one  Sunday  evening  about  this  time.  He 
was  liardly  to  blame  ;  for  an  idea  had  sprung  up  about 
this  time  in  England  that  heresy  was  to  be  conquered 
by  affecting  not  only  a  knowledge  of  its  mysteries,  but 
even  its  extravagances  of  language.  And  there  was  a 
scarcely  concealed  desire  to  attenuate  the  doctrines  of 
the  Church  so  as  to  fit  them  nicely  to  the  irregularities 
of  error.  The  idea,  of  course,  was  the  exclusive  prop- 
erty of  neologists,  and  was  regarded,  not  only  with 
suspicion,  but  with  condemnation,  by  older  and  wiser 
heads,  who  preached  in  season  and  out  of  season  that  it 
is  not  to  mind  and  intellect  that  the  Church  looks,  but 
to  conduct  and  character,  that  is,  the  soul.  But  it  is 
hard  to  convince  young  heads  of  this.  So  Luke  had 
been  for  some  time  introducing  into  his  sermons  strange 
quotations,  very  like  the  Holy  Scriptures,  yet  most  un- 
like, and  they  were  a  grievous  puzzle  to  his  good  rec- 
tor. This  evening,  for  the  special  illumination  of  a 
very  large  section  of  his  audience,  a  number  of  com- 
mercial young  men,  who  were  in  the  habit  of  flocking 
to  the  Catholic  church  on  Sunday  evenings  to  hear  this 


ECLECTIC   CATHOLICISM  259 

brilliant  young  orator,  he  chose  for  his  subject  the 
"Sacred  Books."  An  excellent  subject,  excellently 
illustrated.  But  unfortunately,  in  the  inexperienced 
hands  of  Luke,  wlio  was  at  this  time  probably  pene- 
trated by  his  growing  love  for  Plato  and  his  schools, 
the  side  scenes  became  more  attractive  than  the  great 
central  picture,  until  at  last  the  sermon  began  to  de- 
scend into  a  mere  defence  of  naturalism.  It  was  all 
very  nice  and  ilattering  to  human  nature,  and  Luke 
narrowly  escaped  an  ovation  when  he  wound  up  a  brill- 
iant sermon,  after  several  quotations  from  the  Book  of 
Thoth^  with  this  from  another  :  — 

With  ease  he  maketh  strong,  with  equal  ease 

The  stroll^'  :il)as(!th;   tlie  illustrious 

He  luinislK.'tli,  ami  him  that  is  obscure 

He  raiseth  up;  yea  more,  even  He,  who  wields 

High  thunders,  and  in  mansions  dwells  above, 

AVith  ease  makes  straight  tlie  crookt,  and  blasts  the  proud. 

Hear,  and  l)eliol(l,  and  heed,  and  righteously 

Make  straight  the  way  of  oracles  oi'  God. 

Clotilde  declared  the  sermon  magnificent. 

Mary  O'lieilly  said  to  INIrs.  Mulcahy  :  — 

"  Did  ye  ever  hear  the  like  o'  that  ?  'Tis  like  a 
sthrame  of  honey  comin'  from  his  mout\  It  takes  the 
ould  countliry,  after  all,  to  projuce  the  prachers.  Sure, 
the  poor  Canon,  (iod  be  good  to  him  I  with  his  hum- 
min'  and  hawin',  isn't  a  patch  on  him.  1  suppose  they 
won't  lave  him  to  us  !  " 

The  Canon  took  a  different  stand.  He  prayed 
e<U'nestly,  during  Benediction,  for  light.  Then,  after 
tea,  with  slight  nervousness,  and  most  careful  to  select 
his  words  judiciously,  he  opened  up  the  subject  :  — 

"Was  that  sermon,  l-'atlici-  Delmege,  might  I  ask, 
prepared,  or  was  it  ex  tempore .-  " 

Luke,  who  was  expecting  a  compliment,  said 
promptly  :  — 

"Prepared,  of  course.  I  never  speak  in  that  pulpit 
without  committing  every  word  of  a  manuscript  to 
memory." 


260  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  said  the  old  man,  with  some 
hesitation.  "  I  was  hoping  that,  perhaps,  its  indiscre- 
tions were  attributable  to  haste  and  nervousness.  I 
cannot  conceive  how  a  Catholic  priest  could  sit  down 
calmly  and  write  such  irrelevant  and  injudicious 
things." 

Jealousy  again  !  thought  Luke.     He  said  :  — 

"  Perhaps,  sir,  you  would  kindly  explain.  I  am 
quite  unconscious  of  having  said  anything  indiscreet  or 
liable  to  disedify." 

"  it  is  quite  possible  that  you  have  not  disedified," 
said  the  rector  ;  "  I'm  sure  I  hope  so.  Because  our 
own  people  are  pretty  indifferent  to  these  very  learned 
subjects.  But  do  you  consider  the  fatal  effect  your 
words  might  have  in  retarding  or  altogether  destroying 
the  incipient  operations  of  grace  in  the  souls  of  others  ?  " 

"  You  may  not  be  aware,  sir,"  said  Luke,  playing  his 
trump  card,  "  that  these  lectures  are  the  main  attraction 
to  a  rather  important  section  of  our  separated  brethren, 
who  come  to  our  church  on  certain  evenings  to  hear  and 
be  instructed." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here.  Father  Delmege  ?  " 
said  the  rector. 

"  Very  close  upon  four  years,"  said  Luke. 

"  How  many  converts  have  you  had  under  instruc- 
tion ?  " 

"I  cannot  count  them,"  said  Luke. 

"  How  many  have  you  received  into  the  Church  ?  " 
asked  the  rector. 

Luke  found  he  could  easily  count  them  on  his  fingers. 
He  was  abashed. 

"  And  of  these,  how  many  have  persevered  ? "  said 
the  old  man,  driving  his  investigations  home. 

Luke  had  to  admit  that  nearly  half  had  'verted  again. 

"  Yes  !  "  said  the  old  man ;  "  and  if  you  ask  the 
cause,  you  will  find  it  to  be  your  too  great  liberalism, 
which  to  me  seems  to  be  —  pardon  the  expression  —  a 
half  apology  for  heathenism." 

Luke  was  hurt. 


ECLECTIC    CATHOLICISM  261 

"  I'm  sure,"  he  said,  "  I  do  not  know  exactly  where 
I'm  standing.  Our  leading  men  glorify  the  learning, 
the  research,  the  fairmindedness  of  these  very  men  I 
have  quoted  to-night  ;  and  the  very  books  I  drew  from 
have  been  favourably  reviewed  and  warmly  recommended 
by  our  leading  journals.  Do  you  want  me  to  go  back 
to  the  Catechism  and  to  explain  '  Who  made  the 
world '  ?  " 

"  You  might  do  worse,"  said  the  rector.  "  But,  to  be 
very  serious.  Father  Delmege,  I  think  the  sooner  you 
give  up  the  company  of  these  liberals  and  free-thinkers 
the  better.  I  have  often  blamed  myself  for  not  speak- 
ing to  you  plainly  on  the  matter." 

^  It  w\as  Mrs.  Bluett  introduced  me  to  that  circle," 
apologized  Luke  ;  "and  Catholics  frequent  it.  Halleck 
is  always  there." 

"  Halleck  is  a  good  fellow,"  said  the  rector  ;  "•  but  he 
has  brought  into  the  Church  a  little  of  the  English- 
man's indefeasible  right  of  private  judgment.  If  I 
were  you,  I'd  give  up  these  literary  seances  and  look 
more  closely  after  your  own  poor  people." 

"•  Very  well,  sir,"  said  Luke.  He  said  to  his  look- 
ing-glass, very  soon  after  :  — 

"  The  old  story.  These  Englishmen  want  the  aristoc- 
racy all  to  themselves." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE   SUBMERGED   TENTH 

We  must  not  do  Luke  Delmege  the  injustice  of  sup- 
posing, even  from  his  good  rector's  allusion,  that  he 
was  altogether  careless  about  the  primary  obligation  of 
a  Catholic  priest  —  the  care  of  the  poor.  Indeed,  he 
rather  prided  himself  on  being  able  to  pass,  with  equal 
zeal,  from  the  drawing-room  to  the  kitchen,  and  from 
the  castle  to  the  cabin.  His  figure  was  a  familiar  one 
to  the  denizens  of  Primrose  Lane.  For  here  congre- 
gated a  small  colony  of  exiles  from  Ireland  and  Italy  ; 
and  here,  into  the  dread  monotony  of  English  life,  were 
introduced  the  picturesqueness  and  dramatic  variety 
which  appear  to  be  the  heritage  of  the  Catholic  races. 
Sometimes,  indeed,  Luke,  with  his  admiration  of  Eng- 
lish habits  and  ways,  was  not  a  little  shocked  at  irreg- 
ularities which  are  anathematized  by  the  English 
religion.  The  great  pagan  virtues  of  cleanliness  and 
thrift  were  steadily  ignored.  In  their  place  came  faith 
and  piety,  enthusiasm  and  idealism,  that  were  utterly 
unintelligible  to  the  prosaic  neighbours  around. 

'•'•  A  family  of  Hirish  peddlers,  sa,  and  a  family  of 
Hitalian  horgan-grinders,"  was  the  answer  of  a  portly 
dame  to  one  of  Luke's  inquiries.  "They  are  very 
huntidy,  sa,  in  their  'abits." 

^  Thim  English,  yer  reverence,  they're  haythens. 
They  don't  go  to  church.  Mass,  or  meeting.  They 
think  of  nothing  but  what  they  ate  and   drink." 

Which  sums  up  neatly  the  controversies  between  the 
races,  with  which  economists  have  filled  not  only  vol- 
umes, but  libraries. 

262 


THE   SUBMERGED    TENTH  263 

Luke  at  this  time  was  quite  flattered  at  being  con- 
sidered an  Englishman ;  and  when  his  country  was 
decried,  instead  of  flaring  up  in  the  okl  passionate  way, 
he  politely  assented.  And  yet,  he  really  loved  his  own 
people,  would  take  a  pinch  of  snuff  from  Mrs.  Mulcahy, 
and  say  the  Banacht  Dia  —  the  beautiful  prayer  for  the 
Holy  Souls,  that  is  never  omitted  on  such  an  occasion 
in  Ireland.  And  he  loved  his  little  Italians  —  their 
strange,  grotesque  gestures,  their  beautiful  liquid 
tongue ;  and  he  went  so  far  as  to  nurse  and  fondle  the 
bambinos,  and  to  be  interested  even  in  the  intricacies 
of  the  "horgan."  And  he  did  shudder  a  little  occa- 
sionally when  he  had  to  pass  through  a  crowd  of  English 
girls,  with  their  white,  pale  faces,  and  when  he  had  to 
undergo  a  bold  scrutiny  from  the  irreverent  gaze  of 
some  English  labourers.  In  the  beginning,  too,  he  had 
to  submit  to  an  occasional  sneer  —  "I  confess,"  or 
"  Hour  Father,"  as  a  gang  of  young  Britishers  passed 
by ;  but  by  degrees  he  became  known,  and  these  insults 
ceased.  But  it  was  in  the  county  prison  that  he  be- 
came most  closely  acquainted  with  the  "  submerged 
tenth,"  and  here  he  had  some  novel  experiences. 

A  quick  pull  at  the  jangling  bell,  a  courteous  salute 
from  the  officer,  a  jingling  of  keys,  the  monastic  silence 
of  the  vast  hall,  laced  with  the  intricacies  of  iron  fret- 
work in  the  staircases  tliat  led  to  the  galleries,  from 
which  again  opened  up  and  shut  the  gates  of  the  tombs 
of  the  living  —  nerves  shrink  at  the  thought  until  nerves 
become  accustomed  to  the  ordeal.  Then,  an  uncere- 
monious unlocking  of  cells  and  a  drawing  of  bolts  — an 
equally  unceremonious  slapping  to  of  the  heavy  iron 
door,  and  Luke  is  alone  with  a  prisoner.  He  is  clad  in 
brown  serge,  with  just  a  loose  linen  muffler  around  his 
neck.     His  name  ? 

"  Casabianca.  Is  as  innocent  as  ze  babe  unborned. 
Was  in  ze  French  navee.  Quartur-nuistere.  Yes.  Saw 
some  foreign  serveece.  Has  a  vife.  (Weeps  sadly.) 
And  leetle  childrens.  (Weeps  loudlv.)  Ees  a  Cato- 
lique.        Knows    his    releegion    vhell.       Ees    starved. 


264  LUKE  DELMEGE 

Eferyting  is  so  tirty.     Did  noting.     Vhas   arresteed, 
he  know  not  vhy  ;  but  he  has  six  monz  to  serve." 

Later  on  Luke  found  he  was  not  quite  so  innocent. 
He  gave  Luke  several  lessons  in  prison  life  ;  showed 
him  how  to  take  out  the  stopcock  when  the  water  was 
shut  ojEf  in  the  pipes,  and  through  the  empty  pipes  to 
establish  telephonic  communication  with  his  neighbours  ; 
showed  him  a  new  telegraphic  system  by  knocking  with 
the  knuckles  on  the  wall  ;  showed  him  divers  ways  of 
hiding  away  forbidden  material. 

Allons  !  The  bell  rings  and  he  is  ushered  into 
another  cell.  Here  is  a  stalwart  Irishman,  awaiting 
trial  for  having,  in  a  fit  of  drunkenness,  abstracted  a 
pair  of  boots  that  were  hanging  outside  a  draper's  shop. 

"  You'll  get  three  months  !  "  said  Luke. 

"  I  hope  so,  sir.  I  may  get  seven  years'  penal  servi- 
tude. It's  my  second  offence ;  and  if  they  find  I'm  an 
Irishman,  I  shall  be  certainly  sent  to  penal  servitude." 

"•  Impossible  !  nonsense  !  "  said  Luke. 

The  prisoner  got  seven  years.  His  little  wife  from 
Kerry  fainted. 

Here,  too,  were  sailors  from  Glasgow,  and  Paisley, 
and  Liverpool,  in  for  refusing  to  go  to  sea  in  water- 
logged vessels,  and  who  purchased  their  lives  with 
three  months'  starvation. 

Luke  was  very  indignant.  The  perfect  mechanism 
of  English  methods  was  beginning  to  pall  on  him.  It 
was  so  silent,  so  smooth,  so  deadly,  so  indifferent.  He 
had  a  row  with  his  rector  over  the  matter.  And  at  the 
Lefevrils  he  said  :  — 

"  I  know  it  is  civilization  ;  but  there's  something 
wanting.     What  is  it?" 

He  expressed  in  emphatic  language  his  difficulties  to 
John  Godfrey.     John,  usually  so  phlegmatic,  flared  up. 

"  The  people  must  be  protected,  and  what  is  to  pro- 
tect the  people  but  the  law  ?  " 

"But  seven  years'  penal  servitude  for  a  freak  in  a  fit 
of  drink  I  Do  you  understand  it  ?  Can  you  imagine 
the  horror,  the  desolation,  the  misery,  the  despair,  of 
these  seven  years  of  hell  ?  " 


THE   SUBMERGED   TENTH  265 

"  That's  all  right.     But  the  law  —  the  law  !  " 

The  law  was  the  fetich.  You  dare  not  whisper  a 
syllable  against  it.     Not  the  law  of  God,  but  of  man. 

"  You,  Irish,"  said  the  rector,  "  are  by  nature  opposed 
to  law  and  order      You  sympathize  with  crime  —  " 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  said  Luke.  "  We  convict  criminals, 
we  condemn  crime." 

"  Then  why  commit  crime  ?  "  said  the  rector. 

"  Commit  crime  V  Ireland  is  the  most  crimeless  coun- 
try in  the  world,"  said  Luke. 

"  Tell  that  to  the  marines  I  "  said  the  rector.  Luke 
didn't.  He  knew  that  on  certain  subjects  the  British 
mind  has  one  of  the  symptoms  of  incurable  insanity  — 
the  idee  jixee  of  Charcot. 

He  thought  it  would  be  a  nice  subject  for  the  salon. 
Such  social  problems  were  often  debated  there,  and 
there  was  as  much  theorizing  as  in  Parliament.  Pie 
broached  the  matter  delicately  —  the  dreadful  ine- 
quality of  punishments  under  the  English  law.  They 
gnashed  their  teeth.     He  had  blasphemed  their  god. 

"  Your  countrymen  are  curiously  sympathetic  with 
crime." 

"  There  is  more  crime  committed  in  one  day,  one 
hour,  in  Englajid  than  would  be  committed  in  Ireland 
in  a  century,"  said  Luke,  repeating  the  usual  formula. 

"Ah  !  yes,  perhaps  so  ;  but  they  are  a  lawless  race." 

"  They  don't  break  God's  laws,"  said  Luke. 

"God,"  said  Amiel,  "is  another  name  for  order  — 
^osmoft,  as  Satan  is  disorder —  Chaos.  It  is  the  univer- 
sal order  of  Nature  that  any  deflection  from  its  rules 
must  inexorably  meet  its  punishment.  The  English 
^■iw  is  the  interpreter  of  Nature,  that  is —  (iod  I  " 

Luke  bowed  ;  but  he  thought  he  heard  the  snarl  of 
a  wild  beast  somewhere.     He  said  diihdently:  — 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  Carlyle,  not  Christ,  is  the 
prophet  of  the  English  [)eoj)le." 

"  Christ  interi)^ted  by  Carlyle,"  said  Amiel. 

"  I  never  met  His  Name  in  Carlyle's  twenty-  two  vol- 
umes," said  Luke. 


266  LUKE  DELMEGE 

But  ever  after,  as  he  watched  curiously  the  little, 
shy,  half-suppressed  indications  of  affection  in  the  fami- 
lies to  which  he  was  welcomed,  and  which  revealed 
their  inner  secrets  to  him,  he  could  not  shake  aside  the 
thought  that  had  fastened  on  his  fancy  of  the  lioness 
and  her  cubs  — 

Mouthing  her  young  in  her  first  fierce  kiss. 

But  this  awful,  unbending,  retributive  justice  —  this 
appeal  to  the  brutality  of  nature —  made  him  shudder, 
whilst  it  fascinated  him.  It  was  the  dread  grinding 
of  the  blind  mechanism  that  was  always  haunting  him 
—  the  voice  of  a  soulless  creation. 

Luke  was  asked,  the  following  Sunday,  to  oiftciate  at 
Seathorpe,  a  fashionable  watering-place,  just  then  spring- 
ing into  eminence  on  the  south  coast.  He  had  to  travel 
forty  miles  by  train,  and  he  reached  the  village  at  dusk. 
He  was  directed  to  a  lonely  house  down  by  a  sheltered 
quay,  and  called  Aboukir  Mansion.  Here  he  was  met 
by  the  ubiquitous  Irishman  and  his  wife,  and  it  was  a 
warm  greeting  from  hands  that  had  dug  in  the  silver 
mines  at  Nevada,  and  had  held  a  musket  in  the  trenches 
before  Sebastopol.  And  he  needed  it,  for  it  was  a  large, 
roomy  mansion,  bare  of  furniture,  except  such  as  was 
absolutely  necessary — just  the  kind  of  place  where 
Dickens  would  locate  a  mysterious  murder  and  make 
the  walls  tell  of  it.  Next  morning,  at  ten  o'clock,  he 
faced  his  congregation.  It  consisted  of  six  servants, 
the  lord  of  the  manor,  and  a  magnificent  St.  Bernard 
dog.  The  two  latter  were  located  within  the  sanctuary, 
as  became  their  dignity.  The  others  were  without. 
The  chapel  was  the  old  dining-room  ;  but  the  altar  had 
been  once  in  the  place  of  honour  in  a  famous  Capuchin 
convent  on  the  Adriatic  coast.  Luke  was  about  to 
commence  Mass,  when  a  certain  figure,  clothed  in  cleri- 
cal costume,  arrested  his  arm  and  said  aloud,  with  a 
strong  nasal  accent :  — 

'•'•  Come,  let  us  ado7'e  1 " 


THE    SUBMERGED    TENTH  267 

Luke  was  about  to  resent  the  interruption  when  the 
figure  knelt  and  gravely  intoned  :  — 

"  Come^  let  us  exult  in  the  Lord,  let  us  rejoice  in  God 
our  Helper  ;  let  us  come  before  His  presence  ivitli  thanks- 
giving,  and  inalce  a  joyful  noise  to  Him  zvith  psalms." 

And  the  congregation  muttered  :  — 

"  The  King  to  whom  all  things  live ;  come,  let  us 
adored 

So  the  superb  psalm  went  on  to  the  end.  But  Luke 
was  nowhere.  He  inquired  afterwards  who  the  inter- 
loper was.  A  village  tailor,  who  had  been  received 
into  the  Church  a  few  weeks  before. 

Then  came  the  Missa  Cantata,  sung  by  the  choir  ; 
and  at  the  Gospel  Luke  preached  for  thirty  minutes. 
The  old  man  slept  ;  but  he  congratulated  Luke  warmly 
afterwards.     The  Irishman  was  in  ecstasies. 

"  Why,  you  are  akchally  an  orator,  yer  reverence  ! " 

Luke  admitted  the  impeachment. 

He  was  to  dine  at  the  manor  at  eight  o'clock.  He 
held  an  afternoon  service  at  five.  This  time  there  was 
a  crowd,  a  curious,  gaping  crowd  of  villagers,  who  gath- 
ered in  fear  and  trembling  to  see  what  the  Papists  were 
doinor.  Amonsrst  them  Luke  noticed  two  ladies  in 
black. 

"  The}'"  have  been  attending  the  church  for  ten  years," 
said  the  sacristan. 

'•  Then  they  are  Catholics  ?  "  asked  Luke. 

''  No  !  nor  ever  will  be,"  was  the  answer. 

Luke  was  received  in  the  drawing-room  with  frigid 
politeness.  The  old  man  sat  in  his  arm-chair,  his  dog 
beside  him.  There  was  a  clergyman  in  the  room  and 
his  four  daughters.  He  was  the  old  man's  no])lieAv  and 
expectant  heir.  For  the  old  man  had  married  his  L'ish 
cook,  who  had  converted  him.  Then  she  went  to  heaven 
to  receive  her  reward.     The  estate  was  entailed. 

Dinner  was  announced.  The  old  man  looked  at  Luke. 
Luke  returned  the  gaze  calmly.  The  old  man  was  tlis- 
appointed.  It  was  the  duty  of  the  chaphun  to  wheel 
him  in  to  dinner.     Luke  had  failed  to  understand,  and 


268  LUKE  DELMEGE 

the  nephew  dutifully  took  his  place,  wheeled  the  old 
man  out  of  the  drawing-room,  into  the  corridor,  right  to 
the  head  of  the  table,  the  huge  mastiff  walking  gravely 
by  his  side.  Luke  was  allowed  to  say  grace.  In  the 
course  of  the  dinner  the  nephew  touched  the  decanter 
and  looked  at  his  uncle.  He  was  a  clergyman,  and  in 
his  fiftieth  year. 

"  Might  I  have  one,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  owg,"  said  the  old  man. 

It  was  a  beautiful  act  of  reverence  to  old  age,  or  was 
it  —  mammon  ? 

When  the  ladies  had  retired,  the  three  gentlemen  sat 
around  the  fire.  There  was  solemn  silence.  Luke  was 
uneasy.  His  nervous  temperament  was  not  yet  wholly 
subdued,  although  he  had  acquired  the  art  of  being 
silent  for  ten  minutes  ;  but  a  quarter  of  an  hour  was 
too  great  a  strain.      He  addressed  the  old  man  :  — 

"  I  dare  say  a  good  many  yachts  run  in  here  in  the 
summer  and  autumn  months?" 

The  old  man  was  asleep. 

"•  Did  you  see  Stanley's  latest  ?  "  Luke  said  to  the 
nephew. 

"Stanley?  Stanley?"  coughed  the  clergyman.  "Never 
heard  of  him." 

"  He  has  just  returned  from  his  tour  through  Egypt 
and  the  Holy  Land.  He  accompanied  the  Prince  of 
Wales." 

"  He  must  have  had  a  jolly  time.  Franked  all  the 
way,  I  suppose  ?  " 

Luke  saw  the  trend  of  his  thoughts,  pooi-  fellow  ! 

"  I  like  Stanley,"  he  said,  "although  he's  as  hard  on 
celibate  clergy  as  Kingsley  —  " 

"The  awful  fool  !  "  muttered  the  clergyman. 

"  But  then  he  had  his  five  or  six  thousand  a  year,  and 
no  children." 

Tlie  poor  man  groaned. 

"  Now,"  continued  Luke,  "  I  always  pray  for  two 
persons  —  the  Pope  that  invented  celibacy,  and  the  Chi- 
naman that  invented  tea." 


THE   SUBMERGED    TENTH  269 

"  So  do  I  !  So  do  I !  "  said  his  neighbour.  "That  is, 
I  don't  know  about  that  Chinaman  ;  but  I  like  that 
Pope.     God  bless  him  !  " 

Luke  watched  the  fire. 

"Look  here,"  the  other  whispered,  "'tis  all  rot  I  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Luke. 

"  I  say,  'tis  all  rot,"  repeated  his  companion.  "  'Tis 
all  L.S.D." 

"I  can't  quite  catch  the  subject,"  said  Luke,  "though 
I  understand  the  predicate." 

"  All  this  rubbish  about  religion.  Why,  any  man 
can  be  religious  on  a  thousand  a  year.  Any  man  can 
be  holy  on  two  thousand  a  year.  Any  man  can  be 
a  saint  on  five  thousand  a  year.  It's  all  this  way.  To 
be  a  saint  you  must  be  at  peace  with  all  the  world. 
Very  good.  But  with  five  thousand  a  year,  where's  the 
trouble?  Wliy,  man,  you  can't  have  an  enemy.  Who'd 
say  boo  to  a  fellow  with  five  thousand  a  year,  a  palace, 
and  a  carriage  ?     Phew  !  " 

"  I  hope  your  excellent  uncle  has  twice  five  thousand 
a  year  !  "  said  Luke,  consolingly. 

But  there  came  such  a  look  of  terror  on  the  poor 
fellow's  face  that  Luke  changed  the  subject  imme- 
diately. 

"  That's  a  magnificent  St.  Bernard  !  " 

"A  true  blood  !     The  monks  gave  him  to  my  uncle  !  " 

"That  was  kind." 

"I  suppose  they  thought  St.  Bernard  Mould  like  it. 
He  liked  the  English,  you  know  !  " 

"I  did  not  know.      I'm  deeply  interested." 

"I  don't  know  much  about  these  tilings  ;  but  I  heard 
a  clever  fellow  of  ours  say  tliat  St.  Bernard  gave  the 
Pope  of  his  day  a  rap  over  the  knuckles,  and  that  he 
opposed  the  doctrine  of  the  Immaculate  Conception." 

"  Indeed  !  That  must  be  a  clever  fellow,"  said  Luke, 
sarcastically. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  And,  therefore,  St.  Bernard  must  be  one 
of  us,  you  know." 

"  I  see.     Any  one  that  protests  ?  " 


270  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  Exactly.  Any  man  that  makes  a  row  against  things 
as  they  are  —  " 

"  Eh  ?  eh  ?  "  said  the  old  man,  opening  his  eyes. 

The  nephew  was  paralyzed.  But  the  old  man  dropped 
asleep  again. 

"  You  were  saying  ?  —  "  said  Luke. 

"Sh  !     No,  sir,  I  was  not  saying." 

"  Well,  you  implied  that  you  gather  everything  clean 
and  unclean  into  the  capacious  sheets  of  heresy.  I  have 
noticed  that.  I  remarked  the  other  day  to  one  of  your 
canons  that  it  was  a  singular  fact  that  in  the  Revised 
Version  of  the  New  Testament,  whereas  every  rational- 
ist and  free-thinker  is  quoted,  there's  not  a  single  Catho- 
lic writer  even  mentioned." 

"  Of  course  not  ;  of  course  not,"  said  the  nephew,  who 
was  watching  his  uncle  anxiously. 

"  'Tis  the  tradition  of  your  Church,"  said  Luke,  "  and 
when  the  old  men  die  —  " 

"  Eh  ?  eh  ?  Who  said  I  was  dying  ?  "  exclaimed  the 
old  man,  and  dropped  asleep  again. 

"•  For  God's  sake  stop  and  look  at  the  fire,"  said  the 
alarmed  nephew.  "  If  he  hears  anything  again  'tis  all 
up." 

"  All  right,"  said  Luke. 

So  they  watched  the  fire  until  the  old  man  became 
restless  again. 

"  What's  his  weak  point  ?  "  whispered  Luke. 

"The  view,"  whispered  the  nephew,  in  an  alarmed 
way. 

Luke  got  up  and  went  to  the  window.  It  was  a 
something  to  be  proud  of.  As  one  looked  down  from 
the  almost  dizzy  height,  over  the  roofs  of  detached  villas, 
each  nestling  in  its  own  dark-green  foliage,  and  out 
across  the  quiet  village  to  where  the  sea  slept,  stretch- 
ing its  vast  peacef  ulness  to  the  horizon,  the  words  leaped 
to  the  lips  :  — 

Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 


THE   SUBMERGED   TENTH  271 

But  it  was  the  peace,  the  Sabbath  peace  of  a  Sabbath 
evening  in  Enghmd,  that  stole  on  the  senses,  and 
wrapped  them  out  of  the  bare,  bald  present  into  the 
music  and  magic  of  the  past.  And,  irresistibly,  TJsna- 
lee  and  all  its  loveliness  rose  up  before  the  mind  of 
Luke.  It  was  now  an  infrequent  and  faint  picture. 
Luke  had  blotted  it  from  his  everyday  memory.  He 
had  said  good-bye  to  his  own  land  forever.  After  his 
last  visit,  when  everything  looked  so  old  and  melan- 
choly, and  every  white  cottage  was  a  sepulchre,  he  had 
tacitly  made  up  his  mind  that  his  vocation  was  unques- 
tionably to  remain  in  England,  work  there  and  die 
there,  and  he  only  awaited  the  expiration  of  his  seven 
years'  apprenticeship  to  demand  an  exeat  from  his  own 
Bishop  and  affiliation  to  his  adopted  diocese. 

"Yes,"  he  said  to  himself,  "everytlhng  points  that 
way.  I  have  found  my  metier.  I  must  not  throw  it 
aside.  I  have  no  business  in  Ireland.  I  should  be 
lost  there,  and  we  must  not  bury  our  talents  in  a 
napkin." 

But  somehow,  standing  in  this  broad  bay-window, 
this  long,  summer  twilight,  Lisnalee  would  project  its 
bareness  and  sadness  across  the  calm  beauty  and  the 
snug  prosperity  of  this  English  village.  He  tried  to 
blot  it  out.  No  ;  there  it  was,  floating  above  the  real 
huulscape,  as  a  mist  floats  its  transparency  over  a  sleep- 
ing lake.  And  he  remembered  that  herce  argument  he 
had  with  his  own  conscience,  as  he  rocked  on  the  boat 
the  afternoon  of  the  great  day  when  he  said  his  first 
Mass. 

"I  was  right,"  he  said  ;  "if  I  had  remained  at  home, 
what  -should  I  be  now?  A  poor,  half-distracted  pro- 
fessor in  a  seminary,  or  a  poor,  ill-dressed,  ill-iioust'd 
curate  on  the  mountain,  and  see  wliat  I  am  I  '" 

And  Luke  lifted  his  wateh-ohain  and  tliought  of  his 
greatness. 

"Eh?  eh?"  said  the  old  man,  waking  up  tlnally. 
"  What  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  say,"  said  Luke,  promptly,  "  that  tliere  is  not  in 


272  LUKE  DELMEGE 

the  world,  except  perhaps  at  Sorrento  or  Sebenico,  a 
view  to  equal  that." 

"  Ha  !  did  ye  hear  that,  George  ?  "  chuckled  the  old 
man  ;  "  did  ye  hear  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  George  ;  "  Mr.  Delmege  has  been 
raving  about  it  the  whole  evening." 

"  Mr.  Delmege  has  excellent  taste,"  said  the  old  man; 
"here,  George,  the  ladies  await  tea." 

He  took  occasion  to  whisper  to  Luke  :  — 

"  I  wish  the  Bishop  would  send  you  here.  I  have  en- 
dowed the  mission  —  a  hundred  a  year.  And  you  should 
dine  with  me  every  day.     Eh  ?  " 

"It  would  be  delightful,"  said  Luke.  And  as  he 
walked  slowly,  step  by  step  with  the  yawning  mastiff 
after  the  arm-chair  of  the  host,  he  pictured  to  himself  a 
home  in  this  delightful  village,  with  books  and  pen  and 
paper,  crowds  of  converts,  a  quarterly  article  in  the  Liib- 
lin,  select  society,  an  occasional  run  to  the  city  or  to 
Aylesburgh  to  preach  a  great  sermon,  correspondence 
with  the  world's  literati^  then  ecclesiastical  honours,  and 
beautiful,  dignified  age.  Alas  I  and  his  Master's  mind 
was  weaving  far  other  destinies  for  him  ;  and  swiftly 
and  suddenly  this  vision  of  the  priestly  Sybarite  vanished. 

Next  day  the  old  man  broached  the  subject  again. 
He  had  set  his  heart  on  having  a  resident  priest  at  Sea- 
thorpe.  Luke  referred  him  to  the  Bishop  ;  but  he  more 
than  hinted  that  the  project  would  be  exceedingly  agree- 
able to  himself. 

^  Dear  me  !  "  he  said,  as  he  returned  to  Aylesburgh 
by  the  morning  train,  "•  how  swiftly  we  pass  to  extremes. 
It's  a  seesaw  between  the  'upper  ten  '  and  the 'lower 
five.'  Which  do  I  prefer?  Hardly  a  fair  question.  But 
if  I  had  not  the  prospect  of  that  horrid  prison  before  the 
mental  landscape,  and  Primrose  Lane,  would  life  be  the 
brighter?     Who  knows?" 

He  drew  the  subject  around  deftly  that  evening  after 
tea.  The  good  Canon  was  anxious  to  enter  into,  and 
guide  rightly,  the  strange,  emotional  nature  that  was 
thrown  into  his  hands.     But  he  confessed  himself   at 


THE   SUBMERGED   TENTH  273 

fault.  He  had  studied  every  phase  of  Luke's  character, 
watched  every  mood,  and  reluctantlj^  had  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  fine  spirit  would  never  go  far  wrong, 
yet  never  reach  any  great  height.  The  very  instinct 
that  forbade  the  former  would  debar  the  latter.  And 
the  Canon  thought  the  time  had  come  for  a  change. 
Luke  had  made  some  vigorous  efforts  to  escape  the 
thraldom  of  too  intellectual  society  ;  but  the  toils  were 
around  him,  and  an  evening  at  home  or  at  one  of  the 
quiet  Catholic  houses  was  intolerably  dull.  Where  would 
all  this  end?  The  Canon  often  asked  himself  the  ques- 
tion ;  and  asked  the  same  question  of  the  flowers  he 
placed  and  replaced  around  his  jNIaster's  throne  ;  and 
asked  it  of  the  white  flames  that  sprang  up  around  the 
altar  ;  and  sometimes  paused  in  his  walk,  and  held  his 
Breviary  open  without  reading  it,  and  stumbled  at  cer- 
tain verses  :  — 

'''-Homo,  cum  in  Jionore  esset^  non  intellexit.''' 

"  Does  that  apply  to  mv  young  friend  ?  " 

'•'- Decident  a  cogitationihus  suis ;  secundum  mnltitu- 
dinem  impietatum  eorum,  expelle  eos ;  quoniam  irritave- 
runt  te,  Domlne.'''' 

"  Dear  me !  dear  me !     God  forbid  !  " 

"  How  did  you  like  Seathorpe  ?  "  he  said  to  Luke  at 
supper. 

"  Very  much  indeed!  What  a  quaint  old  place  the 
mansion  is  ;  and  what  a  (piaint  old  fellow  the  proi)rie- 
tor!" 

"  Yes!  the  Church  is  not  making  much  headway  there," 
said  the  old  Canon. 

"It  needs  a  resident  priest,"  said  Luke,  "one  who 
would  give  all  time  and  attention  to  the  possibilities 
of  the  place." 

"Yes!  It  wonhl  be  a  nice  mission  for  a  young  man  of 
energv  wlio  oonhl  keep  his  head." 

"  t  don't  think  there's  much  to  tenq)t  a  man  to  insane 
things  there,"  said  Luke. 

"  Except  the  worst  danger — loneliness  and  the  taedium 
vitae.^'' 


274  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  Yes ;  but  if  a  man  has  his  books,  and  his  pen,  and 
his  work  cut  out  for  him  —  " 

"  Quite  so,  if  he  is  a  strong  man.  But  if  he  be  a  weak 
man,  it  is  certain  danger." 

*•'  Solitude  has  always  been  the  mother-country  of  the 
strong  and  the  elect." 

"  Just  what  I  have  been  saying,"  said  the  Canon. 
"  A  mother-country  to  the  strong  ;  a  howling  and  dan- 
gerous desert  to  the  weak." 

Luke  thought  that  there  was  an  undercurrent  of 
meaning  in  the  Canon's  words  ;  but  there  was  nothing 
to  catch  hold  of  or  resent. 

"  I  shouldn't  object  to  a  mission  there,"  he  said  bluntly. 

"Ah!  I  see  you're  tired  of  us  here.  Well,  Avho  knows? 
Meanwhile,  you  would  do  well  to  visit  the  prison  to- 
morrow.    Tuesday  is  your  day,  I  believe." 

"  Yes,"  said  Luke.     "  Nothing  has  turned  up  there  ?  " 

"  Nothing  unusual,"  said  the  Canon,  quietly.  "There 
is  a  soldier,  a  countryman  of  yours,  up  for  shooting  his 
officer  through  the  heart  on  the  barrack-square  at 
Dover." 

Luke  studied  the  gas-jet  for  a  long  time  when  the 
Canon  had  gone  to  his  room. 


CHAPTER   XXII 
EUTHAXASIA 

Sir  Athelstan  Wilson  had  got  all  he  coveted  in 
this  life,  and  all  he  desired  in  eternity,  which  he  re- 
garded as  a  vague,  ill-defined,  and  unscientific  quantity. 
He  had  snatched  out  of  the  melee  of  life  and  from 
under  the  teeth  of  Orange  mastiiTs  a  dainty  morsel. 
They  gnashed  their  teeth  in  rage  ;  and  he — well,  he 
was  not  satisfied.  Who  is  ?  Well,  where's  the  use  in 
tearing  a  moral  to  tatters?  But  tliere  were  two  tilings 
that  spoiled  his  pleasure.  That  agile  and  most  modest 
microbe  still  declined  his  solicitations,  and  there  was  a 
blank  in  his  life  besides.  For  he  missed,  in  the  morning 
and  the  evening,  the  face  and  figure  of  liis  child ;  the 
little  caresses  tliat  smoothed  out,  at  least  in  fancy,  tlie 
furrows  and  lissures  of  Time  and  Care.  And  then  lie 
did  not  understand  why  she  should  be  sacrificed.  He 
always  thought  Antigone  a  fool  to  trouble  so  much 
about  a  corpse. 

*"  Why  don't  these  clergymen  mind  their  own  busi- 
ness?" he  said  to  his  good  wife.  ""They  are  forever 
intermeddling  in  family  matters.  Barbara  would  be 
here  at  home  but  for  that  excellent  brother  of  yours." 

"  Fm  sure  the  Canon  is  not  to  blame,"  she  whis])cred; 
"  Louis  could  not  l)e  left  alone,  and  you  know  this  house 
would  be  no  asylum  foi-  liini."* 

"  I  never  intended  it  should,"  said  the  doctor.  ''That 
young  gentleman  must  reap  his  wild  oats  where  he 
sowed  them.  lUit  if  your  charitable  brother  is  so  de- 
voted to  Louis,  has  he  not  a  room  at  his  presbytery  to 
give  him  ?  " 

276 


276  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  He  has  already  offered  his  hospitality  to  Louis  and 
Barbara,"  said  the  mother,  with  a  little  of  the  old  spirit. 
"  When  they  return  from  this  brief  trip  they  will  stay 
with  their  uncle  until  Louis'  health  is  completely 
restored." 

"  'Twill  be  a  protracted  visit,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  It  will  be  a  pleasant  one,"  retorted  Lady  Wilson. 
"  Thank  God,  my  children  have  found  in  their  priests 
their  best  and  kindest  friends." 

Which  shows  that  Lady  Wilson  had  a  little  both  of 
mother  love  and  mother  wit. 

Luke  Delmege  did  not  visit  the  prison  on  Tuesday. 
He  came  up  to  town  to  make  definite  and  final  arrange- 
ments with  the  Bishop  to  affiliate  to  his  adopted  diocese. 
He  had  already  written  home  to  demand  his  exeat  from 
his  native  diocese;  and,  as  Seathorpe  had  blotted  out 
Lisnalee  from  the  map  of  his  future,  he  thought  he 
might  as  well  make  assurance  doubly  sure  by  taking 
out  his  affiliation  at  once.  The  Bishop  was  from  home, 
and  Luke  asked  Father  Sheldon  for  a  walk,  in  which  he 
might  unbosom  himself  to  his  friend.  The  latter  did 
persuade  him  to  call  on  the  Wilsons  ;  but  they  were 
out  for  a  short  visit,  said  the  old  housekeeper. 

So  the  two  good  friends,  Celt  and  Saxon  as  they 
were,  once  more  found  themselves  amongst  soldiers  and 
babies  on  the  well-trodden  banks  of  the  Serpentine, 
where  Father  Sheldon  some  years  back  had  tried  to 
extract  that  ailing  tooth,  and  had  failed  egregiously. 

"  I  need  hardly  tell  you,  Sheldon,"  said  Luke,  bluntly, 
"  that  I  have  come  to  town  with  a  purpose.  My  seven 
years'  probation  is  up,  and  I  am  about  to  affiliate,  once 
and  forever,  to  this  diocese." 

Father  Sheldon  walked  along  slowly  and  in  silence. 

"  I've  made  up  my  mind,"  said  Luke,  continuing, 
"  that  my  work  lies  here  in  England.  Ever^^thing  points 
to  it.  So  far,  I  have  been  fairly  successful ;  and  I  have 
no  doubt  but  that  a  still  wider  and  more  —  well,  useful 
career  lies  before  me." 

"  You  liave  given  the  matter  a  good  deal  of  considera- 
tion?" said  Father  Sheldon. 


EUTHANASIA  277 

"  Yes.  In  fact,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  on  the 
subject  since  my  hist  visit  home." 

"  H'm.     rd  advise  you  to  return  to  Irehand  !  " 

"  What  ?  "  said  Luke,  stopping  and  looking  angrily 
at  his  friend. 

''I'd  advise  you  to  return  home  as  soon  as  you  are 
free  to  do  so,"  said  Father  Sheldon,  quietly.  "  You 
will  do  better  there  than  here." 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Sheldon,"  said  Luke.  "Do 
you  mean  that  I've  been  a  failure  here?" 

"N-no,"  said  Father  Sheldon,  languidly.  "But  I 
think  that  eventually  you  would  make  better  strides 
with  your  feet  upon  your  native  heather." 

"  You  speak  as  one  not  knowing,"  said  Luke.  "  Why, 
man,  if  1  were  to  return  now,  I  should  have  to  com- 
mence all  over  again." 

"  How  is  that  ?  "  asked  his  friend. 

"  You  see,  everything  in  L-eland  is  fixed  in  a  cast- 
iron  mould.  Tliey  don't  understand  change,  which  is 
progress.  Everything  is  judged  by  age.  You  buy  a 
bottle  of  wine  —  the  first  question  is:  How  old  is  it? 
You  buy  a  horse:  How  old?  Everything  is  old,  and 
feeble,  and  decrepit  ;  and  no  matter  liow  distinguished 
a  man  may  be  in  England  or  in  America,  you  sink 
down  to  a  cipher  the  moment  you  touch  the  Irish 
shore  ;  and  a  Newman  or  a  Lacordaire  takes  his  place 
at  the  end  of  the  queue.  No  one  asks  :  What  can  you 
do  ?  or.  What  have  you  done?  But,  How  old  are  you? 
How  long  have  you  been  on  the  mission  ?  Result  : 
After  a  few  spasmodic  efforts,  which  become  convulsive, 
you  sink  into  a  lethargy,  from  which  there  is  no  awak- 
ening.   You  become  aged,  not  by  years,  l)ut  by  despair." 

"  That  is  sad.  But  you  have  work,  nevertheless,  liave 
you  not  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  but  uncongenial.  Every  round  man  is 
in  a  square  hole,  and  every  square  man  in  a  round  li(»U\ 
There's  a  great  friend  of  mine  (you  must  come  over  to 
see  liim)  —  " 

"No,  thank  you,"    said  Father    Sheldon.     "I  don't 


I 


278  LUKE  DELMEGE 

value  life  too  highly,  but  I  don't  care  to  throw  it  away 
in  curiosity." 

"  You're  joking.  They'll  pray  for  you  in  the  Cathe- 
dral while  you're  in  the  proximate  danger  of  death  ; 
but  I  was  saying  that  distinguished  man,  a  graduate  of 
Heidelberg,  a  good  German  scholar,  is  banished  to  a 
strip  of  sand  down  by  the  sea,  which  he  calls  a  parish. 
I  assure  you  he  would  do  honour  to  any  diocese  or 
church  in  England." 

"  Pretty  bad.  Have  you  approached  the  Bishop 
here?" 

"  No,  not  yet.  But  that's  all  right.  I  don't  want 
much.  I'm  not  ambitious.  But  there's  a  little  place 
down  there  in  Sussex,  where  a  resident  priest  is  badly 
wanting.  I  shall  propose  to  the  Bishop  to  allow  me  to 
open  a  mission  there.  Of  course,  the  income  is  miser- 
able, but  I  can  eke  out  a  subsistence  with  my  pen." 

"  Have  you  tried  as  yet  that  expeditious  way  of 
making  ends  meet  ?  " 

"  Well,  no.  But  I  know  that  Dr.  Drysdale  man- 
ages to  make  a  clean  hundred  a  year  with  his  pen." 

"  Oh !  AVell,"  said  Father  Sheldon,  shrugging  his 
shoulders,  "  I  suppose  you  must  only  await  the  Bishop's 
decision.     By  tlie  way,  do  you  know  Halleck  ?  " 

"  Yes,  well.  A  clever  fellow.  Indeed,  the  only  one 
in  my  congregation  that  I  fear  on  Sundays." 

"Indeed?  You  needn't  fear  him  much  longer,  I 
think." 

"  How  ?     Is  he  going  abroad  ?  " 

"  No.  But  he  has  started  a  religion  of  his  own,  like 
all  good  Englishmen.       He  calls  himself  an  'eclectic'  " 

"  By  Jove  !  I  didn't  hear  that.  Now  that  I  remem- 
ber, Drysdale  was  speculating  lately  what  he  would  do 
with  certain  people  who  were  what  he  called  latitudi- 


narian." 


"  Well.      And  what  did  he  decide  ?  " 

"  He  would  not  admit  them  to  Sacraments.  Rather 
hard,  I  thought.  I  didn't  know  he  meant  Halleck. 
Where  did  Halleck  split  ?  " 


EUTHANASIA  279 

"Nowhere  in  particular.  Slipped  his  anchors  and 
went  aground." 

"•  That's  horrible.  I  must  look  him  up,  poor  fellow, 
and  bring  him  back.  I  always  told  Drysdale  that  these 
friffid  sermons  of  his  would  do  mischief.  He  couldn't 
understand  that  we  must  keep  pace  with  the  age  and 
read  up  all  that  it  has  to  say.  You  couldn't  expect  a  man 
like  Halleck  to  sit  still  under  first,  secondly,  thirdly, 
fourthly,  fifthly,  sixthly  of  the  old-fashioned  prones. 
But  it  is  so  hard  to  convince  old  fossils  of  these  things 
that  seem  axiomatic." 

"  Quite  so.  But  Halleck  went  further.  It  was  an 
article  in  the  Athencenm  that  revealed  him.  Something 
about  the  Book  of  Thoth.'" 

Luke  turned  white  and  crimson  alternately.  It  was 
a  dread  shock  to  a  soul  that,  if  anything,  was  faithful 
beyond  mciisure  to  Ins  old  principles  and  beliefs.  The 
thought  that  lie,  Luke  Delmege,  through  false  notions 
of  culture,  s[)rung  from  human  vanit}-,  should  actually 
be  instrumental  in  wrecking  the  faith  of  an  able  and 
distinguished  convert,  was  too  horrible.  He  could  con- 
ceive no  more  dire  calamity.  He  knew  well  what  Fatlier 
Sheldon  meant  ;  and  the  old  text  about  ''  the  lying 
prophets"  smote  on  his  memory.  He  foresaw  the  con- 
sequences to  himself.  But  he  was  too  generous  to  heed 
them.  He  only  tliought  tliat  he  had  been  instrumental 
in  imperilling,  if  not  altogetlier  ruining,  the  salvation 
of  a  soul.  The  two  friends  walked  up  and  down  in 
silence  for  a  time.  Then  Luke  moaned  aloud  ;  but, 
choking  down  his  emotion,  he  said  humbly  :  — 

"  Let  us  return.  I  must  catch  the  evening  train  to 
Avlesburirli." 

It  was  a  ver}^  gentle,  conscience-stricken  man  tlmt 
entered  the  county  prison  next  morning.  In  cell  -1. 
on  the  first  corridoi-,  he  found  his  prisoner. 

"  Pretty  Ijad  business,  sir,"*  said  the  warder.  It  was 
the  old,  old  story.  The  proud  and  effeminate  imperial- 
ist, fresh  from  the  voluptuousness  of  the  capital,  and  the 
strong-thewed  gladiator  from  Scythia,  grimed  from  the 


280  LUKE  DELMEGE 

soot  of  battle,  and  hardened  from  the  baptisms  of  fire. 
And  it  was  all  for  England,  and  England  did  not  know 
it.  How  could  she  ?  And  how  could  that  imbecile 
understand  the  awful  death  he  was  summoning  from  a 
smitten  soul,  when  he  walked  around  that  clean,  brave 
man,  and  called  him,  "  a  dirty  Irish  pig." 

"  Wance  more,"  said  the  pig,  ''  and  he's  in  hell." 

"  Keep  quiet,  ye  ruffian,"  said  his  comrade,  "  and  let 
the  divil  and  his  piper  pass." 

Too  late.     For  the  piper  piped  :  — 

"  One  step  to  the  rear,  you,  sir,  till  I  examine  your 
kit." 

Then  the  cartridge  was  slipped  quietly  into  its  deadly 
cradle. 

"■  And  thin,"  said  the  prisoner,  "  he  kem  in  front  av 
me,  and  laughed.  An'  somethin'  snapped  in  me  head, 
and  my  finger  tetched  the  thrigger  ;  an'  he  was  lying  in 
a  heap  on  the  ground.     That's  all  !  " 

"•  There's  no  defence  possible  here,"  thought  Luke. 

None.  And  in  a  few  weeks  the  sentence  went  forth. 
Death  for  death. 

"  I've  wan  request  to  make,  my  Lord,"  said  the  pris- 
oner. "  Gi'  me  the  priest,  and  let  me  be  hanged  in  half 
an  hour." 

Monstrous  !  That  would  be  contrary  to  all  precedent. 
It  would  be  abominable  cruelty.  Four  weeks  at  least 
should  intervene.  Four  weeks  of  fiendish  torture  — 
the  torture  of  seeing  a  cruel  and  inevitable  horror  creep- 
ing hour  by  hour  and  minute  by  minute  before  one's 
eyes,  without  a  hope  of  escape  or  mitigation.  Four 
weeks  of  slow  death,  to  which  the  brutalities  of  the  Sioux 
and  the  Comanche  were  mercy.  For  there,  whilst  the 
knives  quivered  in  the  victim's  flesh,  and  the  tomahawks 
sang  over  his  head,  his  blood  was  on  fire  with,  anger  and 
pride  ;  and,  as  in  the  heat  of  ])attle  men  will  not  feel 
the  sting  and  smart  of  wounds,  so  under  physical  tor- 
ture men  heed  neither  pain  nor  death.  But  lo  !  that 
awakening  in  the  morning  from  dreams  of  childhood  — 
from  daisied  meadows  and  laughing  streams  and  brill- 


EUTHANASIA  281 

iant  sunshine  to  the  whitewash  of  the  condemned  cell, 
and  the  dread  spectre  of  the  fatal  morning  one  day 
nearer  ;  and  Oh  !  the  long  hours  of  consciousness, 
unbroken  by  one  single  moment's  distraction  from  the 
tense  horror  that  haunts  him  ;  and  Oh  !  the  presence 
of  these  silent  warders,  watching,  watching,  lest  the 
wretched  victim  should  escape  the  vengeance  of  the 
law  ;  and  the  very  luxury  of  the  food  that  is  proffered 
and  sent  away  uneaten,  as  if  food  could  quench  the 
burning  wheels  of  a  brain  on  fire  with  dread  foreboding  ; 
and  the  cold,  calculated  sympathy,  whilst  the  meshes 
are  tightening  around  the  doomed  one  ;  and  finally,  the 
hideous  drama  on  the  fatal  morning,  to  which  the  hor- 
rors of  the  Roman  arena  were  but  stage  representations, 
so  cold,  and  callous,  and  inexorable  does  the  hand  of 
man  choke  out  the  immortal  soul  ;  and  then  the  un- 
speakable mockery  of  calling  this  hideous  and  hidden 
tragedy  a  "  painless  death  '" ;  Oh  !  'tis  all  too  dreadful 
evett  for  this  polished  and  cultured  generation,  that 
knows  notliing  and  cares  less  for  the  charity  of  Christ. 
It  was  a  happy  distraction  for  Luke  that  his  sympa- 
thies were  engaged  in  sootliing  the  last  days  of  this 
unhappy  man  ;  for  his  own  supreme  folly  would  other- 
wise have  driven  him  half-mad.  Yes  !  Halleck  had 
apostatized  ;  and  the  fine  eclecticism  of  Amiel  Lefevril 
could  not  mitigate  the  shame  or  the  horror.  The  posi- 
tive, divine  truth  of  tlie  Catliolic  truth  never  struck 
Luke  Dehnege  so  forcibly  as  when  he  realized  that 
playing  with  the  ineffable  mysteries  of  faith  was  a  dan- 
gerous game.  Doctrines  to  be  proved  ;  objections  to 
be  met ;  jirinciplcs  to  l)e  defended  —  all  tliis  souikUhI 
commonplace  to  a  dialectician,  and  scarce!}'  affecteil  liis 
sense  of  responsibility.  But  ''  a  soul  lost  by  your  mis- 
direction !  "  The  thoucrht  was  too  dreadful.  The  sad 
work  of  ])reparing  a  criminal  for  death  came  as  a  relief. 
l>ut  how  Luke  was  tortured  duriufr  that  month  of  Ldoom 
his  diary  testifies. 

"  A  uffust  18.  —  Said  Mass  for  Halleck.     Poor  fellow  gone  abroad. 
No  trace.     Visited  Donnelly.     Bearing  up  well,  he  says,  but  in  the 


282  LUKE  DELMEGE 

morning  when  he  wakes  and  the  dread  horror  strikes  him  !  Is  very 
repentant,  poor  fellow.  Discussion  with  Canon  about  capital  pun- 
ishment, on  theological  principles.  Where  and  when  was  society 
invested  with  the  supreme  attribute  of  taking  human  life?  He 
could  only  say,  in  the  old  formula,  '  Coinmencez,  Messieurs  les 
assassins ! ' 

''August  20.  —  Letter  from  Sheldon.  Wilsons  going  abroad. 
Letter  "from  Father  Martin.  Great  annoyance  at  home  at  the 
thought  of  my  leaving  my  native  diocese.  Saw  poor  Donnelly. 
The  good  nuns  spent  two  hours  with  him  to-day.  Very  muchcon- 
soled.  '  Father,  if  I  could  get  my  blood  up,  'twould  be  all  right. 
Would  it  be  any  harm  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  these  poor  fellows 
and  have  a  friendly  fight?  If  they'd  take  me  out  wanst  a  day  and 
scourge  me,  'twould  make  me  mad,  an'  I'd  have  somethin'  to  think 
about  besides  the  drop.'  Paid  a  short  visit  to  the  Lefevrils.  Rarely 
go  there  now.  They  cannot  understand  my  awful  trouble  about 
Halleck.  '  He's  made  no  change,'  they  say ;  '  he's  as  he  always 
was.'  The  devil  himself  cannot  knock  this  notion  of  private  judg- 
ment out  of  the  minds  of  these  people.  Why  should  he,  indeed  ? 
'Tis  his  trump  card. 

''  August  21.  —  Sunday.  Mass  at  convent.  Preached  at  Missa 
Cantata.  The  Canon  very  kind  about  Halleck's  affair.  He  actually, 
for  the  first  time,  said  a  kind  word  about  my  sermon,  which  1  con- 
sidered commonplace.  Why  are  the  old  so  economical  aboufkind 
words  to  the  young?  They  are  cheap;  and  God  only  knows  what 
a  splendid  tonic  is  a  kind  word.  I  cannot  get  poor  Donnelly  out 
of  iny  head.  His  face  haunts  me.  The  drawn  look  on  the  cheeks, 
the  staring  eyes,  the  cold,  clammy  perspiration  on  his  forehead  and 
in  his  hands.  What  a  mercy  if  they  had  hanged  him  a  fortniglit 
ago  !  Yet  another  fortnight  —  twenty  thousand  minutes  of  anguish, 
and  each  minute  a  hell !  I  cannot  sleep  these  nights.  Donnelly 
and  Halleck  haunt  me.  Which  is  worse  —  the  dead  soul  or  the 
strangled  body? 

''August  22.  —  The  Canon  and  I  have  a  bad  falling-out  about 
this  poor  fellow.  I  put  it  bluntly  to  him  last  night  after  tea :  what 
right  has  society,  if  it  has  the  right  to  destroy  human  life  at  all, 
which  I  emphatically  deny,  to  heap  up  torture  of  this  kind  on  a 
condemned  man,  and  then  plunge  him  into  a  fearful  and  appalling 
death  ?  Why  does  not  she  —  1  suppose  it  is  she  —  use  the  more 
merciful  form,  the  Socratic  hemlock  or  chloroform?  Who  gave 
society  the  right  to  torture  as  well  as  to  kill  ? 

"  Letter  from  Bishop.  Rather  ambiguous.  A  great  many  ifs 
and  but's.  Who  knows?  Perhaps,  after  all,  I  shall  return  to  Ire- 
land.    Infandum  ! 

"  August  2i.  —  Reading  up  St.  Thomas  to-day.  Ugh !  It's  like 
eating  sawdust  after  Mill  and  Stewart.  Why —  well,  there  I  am 
again,  always  questioning,  always  puzzled.  A  letter  from  the  old 
gentleman   at    Seathorpe,   asking  whether   I  had   considered  his 


EUTHANASIA  283 

proposal.  Certainly,  my  dear  old  friend,  but  others  have  to  con- 
sider too.  Wrot^e  to-day  to  Donnelly's  P.P.  in  Ireland.  '  Av  I  had 
took  his  advice  1  wouldn't  be  here  the  day.'     Sic  damnatus! 

"  August  25.  —  Letter  from  Olivette  Lefevril,  inclosing  one  from 
Ilalleck  and  detailing-  his  future  plans.  Evidently  uneasy  in  his 
horrible  a[)Ostasy  and  tiinginy  all  the  blame  on  me  !  !  !  '  Quite  clear,' 
he  says,  '  that  a  good  many  Roman  Catholic  clergymen  are  of  my 
way  of  thinking.  Indeed,  it  was  the  sermons  of  our  good  friend, 
^Ir.  Delmege,  that  gave  this  fresh  bias  to  my  thoughts  !  '  A\'liat  a 
beastly  lie  !  The  fellow  was  always  a  free-thinker  and  hardly  con- 
cealed it.  I  defy  any  one  to  quote  a  single  passage  from  my 
sermons  that  is  not  orthodox  ! 

"Auf/ust  27.  —  Looked  up  all  my  sermons  yesterday  again. 
There's  not  a  word  that  could  be  construed,  even  by  the  foulest 
imagination,  into  an  apology,  or  the  faintest  shadow  of  excuse,  for 
heresy  in  any  shape  or  form.  Why,  'tis  the  very  thing  I  liave 
always  hated  and  loathed.  But  these  hypocrites  are  foi'ever  seek- 
ing to  fling  over  the  blame  of  their  apostasies  on  others.  Even  the 
good  Cardinal  :  '  England  did  not  abandon  the  faith ;  she  was 
robbed  of  it.'  Bosh  !  Poor  Donnelly  calmer,  except  in  the  morning. 
Yes  ;  one  gets  used  to  everything  in  this  wctrld  ! 

^^  Auf/ust  29.  —  Nothing  would  do  this  old  gentleman  but  to 
drag  up  this  infernal  question  again.  He  seems  to  gloat  over  the 
hon-ible  approaching  death  of  poor  Donnelly.  I  wonder  was 
Christianity  ever  preached  in  this  country?  'Coming  near  the 
end,  sir  !  '  said  the  old  governor  to-day,  rubbing  his  hands,  as  if  he 
were  after  playing  a  game  of  whist.  '  Bearing  up  well,  poor  chap  !  ' 
Casablanca  complaining  and  whining  that  his  nerves  are  disturbed 
by  the  sounds  of  the  carpenters  at  the  scaffold!  Ugh!  Isn't  it 
horril)le  ?  I  suppose  I'll  never  sleep  again.  I  was  alone,  after 
Benediction  to-night  in  the  church,  trying  to  say  a  prayer  for  poor 
DouupIIv.  Alone  with  Ilni!  Then  a  sudden  horror  seized  me, 
and  I  lii'd. 

"  Auf/uxt  30.  —  '  A  couple  of  days  more,  yer  reverence,  and  'twill 
be  all  over.  Yer  reverence,  wouldn't  ye  say  a  little  word  to  rouse 
me  and  make  me  forget  meself?  Whin  the  nuns  come  here  I'm 
all  riglit  for  hours  after.'  I  wonder  what  does  the  jioor  fellow 
mean?  The  Canon  opened  up  the  matter  again  to-night.  Society 
has  to  use  the  law  as  a  deterrent  and  a  punishment,  as  well  as  a 
jirotectiou.  This  I  denied  in  tola.  Society  has  a  right  to  protect 
itself  —  no  more.  Can  it  be  protected  by  locking  up  ciiniinals? 
If  so,  then  it  has  no  right  to  murder.  If  it  has  a  right  to  take  life, 
then  that  shoulil  be  done  in  the  easiest  and  decentest  manner. 
'  But  this  is  a  painless  death  ! '  No  use  in  talking.  Tlie  English 
have  no  imagination.  A  painless  death  !  \  death  into  which  all  tiie 
iiorrorsof  hell  are  concentrated;  a  death  to  which  all  the  alleged  tor- 
tures of  the  Middle  Ages  were  the  sweetest  ecstasies.  I  wonder  will  I 
keep  my  reason  the  fatal  morning?    I  have  been  thinking  of  asking 


284  LUKE  DELMEGE 

Drysdale  to  take  my  place.  But  poor  Donnelly  won't  have  it.  Oh ! 
if  I  could  but  sleep.  And  Halleck  attending  Mass  and  going  to 
Communion  in  Chalons,  so  the  j^apers  say. 

'■'■September  1.  —  The  Canon  hints  broadly  that  I'm  not  wanted 
in  the  diocese.  He  hien !  The  world  is  all  before  me,  where  to 
choose.  But  have  I  cut  the  ground  from  under  my  feet  at  home? 
Let  me  suppose  that  the  Bishop  sent  over  my  exeat,  as  I  re- 
quested, where  am  I  ?  Nobody's  child.  Donnelly,  I  fear,  will  lose 
liis  reason,  and  so  shall  I.  There's  a  look  as  of  a  maniac  in  his  eye. 
The  nuns  soothe  him  wonderfully  with  the  stoi'y  of  the  Passion  of 
our  Lord.  '  Spake  to  me  of  that,'  he  says,  '  an'  I'm  all  right.'  I 
try  to  console  him  with  the  assurance  that  we  are  all  moving  in  the 
same  direction  as  himself.  'Spake  to  me  of  that,'  he  says.  Poor 
fellow!  And  he  had  looked  into  the  black  nioutli  of  the  cannon 
without  fear,  in  the  mutiny,  when  the  Sepoys  had  actually  touched 
the  powder  with  the  fuse. 

"  September  2.  —  Said  Mass  for  poor  Donnelly.  Looked  up  all  my 
past  sermons  again.  I  offered  to  submit  them  to  the  Canon  last 
night,  and  let  him  say  was  there  anything  objectionable  in  them. 
'  No,  thank  you ! '  was  his  rejjly.  Letter  from  my  clerical  friend 
at  Seathorpe,  asking  me  to  use  my  great  influence  with  his  uncle  to 
secure  an  advance  of  a  few  pounds  ;  or,  if  I  preferred,  to  advance 
the  money  myself.  Donnelly  in  a  bad  state.  Eyes  staring;  hands 
trembling  ;  no  food.  Something  will  snap  in  his  head  again,  I 
fear.  He  told  me  this  morning  he  had  had  a  sunstroke  in  India. 
This  accounts  for  a  good  deal. 

^^  September 'i.  —  Visited  Donnelly.  Strange  to  say,  he's  cooler 
and  quieter  than  he  has  been  since  his  sentence.  Poor  fellow! 
He  made  me  sole  legatee.  Medals,  Lucknow,  Oude,  a  cane  wreathed 
with  serpents,  an  idol  stolen  from  a  Burmese  pagoda,  and  a  stone 
—  topaz,  I  think  —  which,  he  says,  seen  under  a  peculiar  light, 
breaks  into  flames,  etc.  "What  a  strange  history  !  The  history  of 
a  vagrant  and  ubiquitous  race,  that  hate  their  country  when  they 
are  in  it,  and  yearn  for  it  when  they  are  absent.  I  wonder  shall  I 
sleep  to-night.  .  .  .  Broke  down  in  resolution  this  afternoon,  and 
asked  the  Canon  to  accompany  poor  Donnelly  to  death.  I  can 
never  face  it.  'No,  thank  you!'  was  his  reply.  I  wonder  what 
strange  chemical  did  the  Lord  mix  with  the  clay  from  which  He 
fashioned  these  good  English?" 

Here  the  diary  breaks  off  and  is  not  resumed  for 
many  a  day.  It  would  appear  that  Luke,  after  a  sleep- 
less night,  woke,  sick  and  weary,  to  the  dread  dawn. 
The  excellent  Canon  was  to  say  the  convent  Mass,  and 
Luke  was  to  come  straight  from  the  prison,  after  the 
execution,  to  celebrate  the  Holy  Sacrifice  for  the  poor 


EUTHANASIA  285 

dead  soldier.  That  programme  had  to  be  altered. 
Luke  did  brace  himself  for  the  frightful  ordeal  ;  did  go 
to  the  prison,  where  a  strange  thing  took  place.  For 
the  strange  grace  was  given  to  the  poor  condemned  of  a 
moment's  distraction  from  his  awful  fate  ;  he  saw  the 
horror  in  Luke's  face  worse  than  his  own.  He  noticed 
his  trembling  hands,  his  white,  drawn  face  ;  and,  with 
the  sympathy  of  his  race,  he  forgot  himself  in  his 
anxiety  for  his  poor  priest.  "  Bear  up,  yer  reverence  !  " 
he  said,  as  they  pinioned  his  hands  ;  "'twill  be  all  over 
in  a  minit  ;  don't  let  thim  Prodestans,"  he  whispered, 
'"say  ye  broke  down."  In  vain.  With  horror,  shudder- 
ing through  every  limb,  Luke  stepped  along,  the  poor, 
condemned  man  reciting  the  Litanies,  and,  at  the  same 
time,  trying  to  console  the  priest.  Stupefied  and  only 
semi-conscious,  he  stood  on  the  scaffold,  shuddered 
at  the  cool,  calculated  arrangements  for  destruction  ; 
watched,  as  in  a  dream,  the  stare  of  the  warders,  and 
the  doctor,  with  his  watch  in  his  hand,  and  the  cruel 
machinery.  The  ])riest  dare  not  look  on  the  face  of  the 
doomed  man,  which  at  this  supreme  moment  was  tiglit- 
ened,  every  nerve  and  muscle  tense  with  agony.  Then 
there  was  a  friglitful  crash,  a  stifled  moan  of  human 
pain,  and  the  swish  of  the  body,  as  it  plunged  into  the 
gloom  of  the  pit.  Luke  felt  the  rope  tightening,  as  it 
dragged  the  shrieking  soul  from  the  body  ;  then  easily 
vibrating,  as  a  beast  that  holds  its  prey,  it  swung  to  and 
fro  within  a  foot  from  where  he  stood.  Then,  like  a 
drunken  man,  he  staggered  from  the  scaffold  and  made 
liis  wav  to  the  corridor.  He  heard  some  one  say,  "  Not 
a  hitch!" 

The  Governor  followed  liastily  to  proffer  hospitality. 
That  must  never  be  forgotten. 

"  It  passed  off  well,  sir  I     Quite   a   painless  death  ! 
You  look  pale!     Have  a  glass  —  " 

But  Luke  had  fainted  and  fallen  heavily  on  the  tiled 
pavement. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 
THE   RHINE   FALLS 

"  Your  young  men  shall  see  visions,  and  your  old 
men  shall  dream  dreams."  And  Father  Meade,  suc- 
cessor to  Father  Tim  in  the  parish  of  Gortnagoshel,  had 
a  dream.  And  although  he  had  been  teaching  for  forty 
years  that  it  was  sinful  to  give  credit  to  dreams,  fortune- 
telling,  or  to  attach  any  importance  to  omens  and  acci- 
dents, it  is  regrettable  to  have  to  record  that  Father 
Meade  believed  in  that  dream.  He  thought  he  was 
down  by  the  sea,  near  Father  Martin's,  and  it  was  a 
wild,  tempestuous  night ;  dark  as  Erebus,  but  for  the 
white  flecks  in  the  tumult  of  waves  and  the  white 
sheets  that  floated  to  his  feet.  He  did  not  know  what 
brought  him  there  ;  but  as  he  gazed  out  on  the  mid- 
night desolation  he  heard  a  cry  afar  off  ;  and  out  from 
the  swirl  of  waters,  and  conquering  the  screams  of  the 
storm,  came  clearly  and  distinctly  to  his  ears  the  words  : 
Allua  !  Allua  !  !  Allua  !  !  !  Then  he  thought  Luke 
Delmege  rushed  down  from  the  cliffs  and  plunged  into 
the  boiling  waters,  and  —  Father  Meade  awoke,  and 
when  he  had  gathered  together  his  scattered  senses,  he 
asked  himself  angrily  :  What  did  I  eat  ?  For  he 
prided  himself  on  his  constitutional  habits,  and  had 
arranged  with  his  stomach  and  the  Fates  that  he  would 
see  a  century  at  least.  Then  he  decided  it  was  ''  corned 
beef,"  a  dish  rather  dangerous  from  its  attractiveness. 

"I  should  have  taken  a  second  tumbler,"  he  mur- 
mured, and  dropped  to  sleep  again. 

But  when  morning  dawned,  and  he  sat  meditatively 
by  his  fire,  for  the  frosts  had  come  early  this  year,  his 

286 


THE   RHINE   FALLS  287 

dream  recurred  to  him  again  and  again  ;  and  Allua 
Allua  !  rancf  in  his  ears  and  floated  across  the  lines  of 
the  psalms  in  his  Breviary.  And  somehow  the  syl- 
lables were  familiar,  although  memory  refused  to  unlock 
the  secret  for  a  long  time.  Then,  ver}-  suddenly,  as  is 
the  wont  of  memory,  a  scene  flashed  out  upon  his  mind. 
It  was  a  convent  school,  there  in  the  heart  of  the  city  ; 
and  there  was  an  ''exhibition."  That  is,  the  children 
were  all  in  their  Sunday  dresses,  and  there  were  great 
piles  of  currant-cake  on  tlie  side  tables,  and  very  beau- 
tiful singing  of  grand  old  Irish  melodies,  and  an  address 
to  himself.  And  then  a  dear  little  child  stepped  to  the 
front  and,  with  inimitable  self-possession,  commenced 
to  recite  Callanan's  famous  poem  :  — 

There  is  a  green  island  in  lone  Gougaune  Barra. 

But  she  tripped  at  the  next  line,  for  the  Easter  hymns 
were  in  her  ears,  and  she  blundered  into  — 

Where  Alleluia  of  song  rushes  forth  like  an  arrow. 

And  Allua  became  her  nickname  from  that  day  forward. 

Now,  Father  Meade,  tlien  a  dashing  young  curate, 
was  enthusiastic  ;  and,  in  his  deliglit  and  ecstasy,  he 
made  a  speech,  and  the  speech  contained  a  promise.  It 
was  a  rash  one,  as  may  be  supposed. 

'•Wherever,"  he  said,  "you,  my  little  children,  may 
be  scattered  in  after  life  —  North,  South,  East,  West, 
America,  England,  Australia,  New  Zealand  —  you  must 
count  upon  me  as  your  father  and  your  friend,  and  ap- 
peal to  me,  nay,  conuuand  me,  to  come  to  your  assist- 
ance should  you  ever  requii'O  it." 

lie  often  thougiit  of  tliat  prnmisc  in  after  life,  al- 
though lie  was  seldom  callcil  upon  to  redeem  it.  For 
somehow,  there,  in  their  humbh'  lioines  and  by  lonely 
firesides,  the  hearts  of  these  Irish  priests  are  forever 
stretching  out  and  vearning  after  tlieir  exiletl  children, 

_ 

and  womlering  what  has  become  of  the  lads  who  served 
their  Masses  in  the  mountain  cabins,  or  held  their  horses' 


288  LUKE  DELMEGE 

heads  during  a  sick  call  ;  or  the  little  maids,  who  peeped 
from  their  humble  snoods,  and  wondered  at  the  awful 
might  and  dignity  of  the  priest,  or  blushed  at  the  faint- 
est praise  in  the  dingy  school.  But  now,  after  a  lapse 
of  thirty  years,  "  Allua  of  song"  has  called  to  him  to 
keep  his  promise,  and  Allua  is  in  trouble  and  wants 
him.  He  was  puzzled,  and  thought  of  consulting  his 
housekeeper.  Then  he  dreaded  her  sarcasm.  She  was 
always  trying  to  make  him  practical,  to  keep  him  from 
giving  good  shoes,  "that  'ud  bear  to  be  soled  agin,"  to 
a  tramp  wliose  toes  were  in  evidence  ;  or  stealing  some 
of  her  fine,  home-cured  bacon,  that  she  was  reserving 
for  a  grand  party.  Then  he  tried  to  shake  off  that 
dream  and  that  memory.  No  use  !  There  it  was,  and 
the  voice  of  the  dream  in  his  ears.  Then  he  thought  of 
consulting  his  neio^hbour.  Father  Cussen.  The  worfct 
thing  a  jDarish  priest  could  do  is  to  consult  a  curate 
about  anything.  He'll  tell  the  world  about  it  and  crow 
over  you  ever  after.  Father  Meade  finally  decided  to 
go  down  and  see  the  scene  of  the  midnight  horror,  and 
judge  how  far  it  was  real  and  how  far  imaginary.  It 
was  a  good,  brisk  walk  ;  but  Father  Meade  intended  to 
be  a  centenarian,  and  that  was  a  long  wa}^  oif  as  yet. 
So  he  took  his  stand  on  the  shelf  of  rock,  just  where  he 
had  stood  in  his  dream,  and  looked  out  over  the  mighty 
waste.  All  along,  over  to  where  a  faint  dim  line  of 
haze  marked  the  eagle  beak  of  Loop  Head,  the  sea 
stretched  in  almost  provoking  calmness.  Not  a  ripple, 
on  this  calm  September  day,  fretted  the  polished  sur- 
face,'save  where,  right  in  the  centre  of  the  vast  estuary, 
a  very  faint  ruffling  marked  where  the  great  leap  of  the 
mighty  river  was  challenged  by  the  insweeping  tide. 
But  there  was  neither  wind  nor  wave  ;  and  yet,  as  tli'j 
old  priest  looked,  he  found  it  not  difficult  to  imagino 
that  Allua  !  Allua  !  was  borne  to  his  ears  across  the 
waste  of  waters.  He  turned  homewards,  puzzled  and 
anxious  ;  but  as  his  road  ran  down  by  the  shrubbery 
that  fringed  the  outer  wall  of  Father  Martin's  garden, 
he  thought  he  might  give  a  call.     The  result  was  that 


THE   RHINE   FALLS  289 

a  few  days  later,  when  Luke  had  recovered  from  the 
shock  he  had  received  and  was  able  to  open  his  corre- 
spondence, he  read  :  — 

"  My  dear  Father  Delmege  :  —  If  you  should  come  across,  in 
your  travels  through  London  or  elsewhere,  a  little  girl  (but  now,  I 
suppose,  a  young  woman),  answering  to  the  name  of  Alhia,  tell  her 
I  have  got  her  message,  and  will  befriend  her,  if  she  is  in  trouble, 
as  I  suspect.  Faithfully  yours, 

"  William  Meade,  T.P." 

"  That's  an  exact  counterpart  to  the  letter  addressed  : 
'  My  son  in  America,' "  said  Luke  ;  and  he  thought  no 
more  of  it.  Especially  as  the  same  mail  had  brought 
him  a  letter  from  his  Bishop,  very  kind  and  sympathetic, 
warning  him  of  the  seriousness  of  the  step  he  was  medi- 
tating, and  assuring  him  of  a  mission  at  home  if  he 
could  only  make  up  his  mind  to  return. 

"  I  think,"  his  Lordship  wrote,  "  as  3'ou  were  educated 
for  3-()ur  own  diocese,  you  ought  to  serve  in  your  own 
diocese.  But  I  shall  not  recall  you  against  j-our  own 
wishes." 

"  Then  the  ground  is  not  quite  cut  from  under  my 
feet,"  said  Luke  ;  and  he  wrote  promptly  to  say  that  he 
would  return  for  the  1st  of  October,  after  a  brief  trip 
on  the  Continent,  whither  he  had  been  ordered  by  his 
physician. 

He  ran  up  to  the  city  to  explain  his  intentions.  He 
remained  for  dinner.  He  was  seated  next  a  miglity 
travelliM-  —  a  kind  of  latter-day  Al)be  Hue,  wlio  was 
intinitt'ly  polite  and  rondescending,  asked  J^uke  many 
questions,  and  gave  him  valuable  information  as  to  his 
route  to  Switzerland.  Luke  was  vi'ry  happy  in  thinking 
that  his  own  amiability  pr()m[)tly  si.M-ured  friends  in  all 
directions.  There  was  not  a  word  about  Ilalleek,  or 
the  slightest  allusion  to  Canon  Drysdale  or  Aylesburgh. 
His  seven  years'  apprenticeship  was  unnotii-eil.  Nor 
Avas  there  a  syllable  of  regret  that  he  was  no  longer  to 
labour  and  live  amongst  tliem. 

Two  nights  after,  Lidvc  stood  on  the  platform  of  the 
station  at  the  frontier  town  of  Herbesthal.     His  train 


290  LUKE  DELMEGE 

was  shunted  to  make  way  for  the  great  continental 
express.  Luke  walked  up  and  down,  having  given  his 
valise  to  a  porter,  and  he  saw  representatives  of  every 
nation  under  heaven.  At  twelve  o'clock  the  great 
express  rolled  in,  lighted  from  stem  to  stern  ;  and  the 
long  corridor  that  ran  from  end  to  end  of  the  train  was 
thronged  with  passengers,  whose  very  presence  indi- 
cated that  their  lines  had  been  cast  in  pleasant  places 
in  this  life,  and  that  they  were  determined  to  make  the 
most  of  the  opportunity.  Luke  was  half  afraid  of  these 
elect  of  society  ;  for,  although  he  had  learned  a  good 
deal  during  his  apprenticeship,  he  was  fortunate  enough 
as  yet  to  have  retained  a  little  of  liis  idealism.  He  had 
not  yet  reached  that  dread  stage  in  life  where  every- 
thing has  become  mean  and  commonplace  under  the 
gray  aspects  of  experience.  But  he  ventured  to  look 
at  all  these  grand  personages,  and  one  figure  and  face 
arrested  him.  The  gentleman  was  dressed  in  a  gray 
travelling  suit,  and  had  a  Scotch  plaid  shawl  rolled 
round  his  shoulders;  but  it  is  —  no  —  it  must  be  the 
face  of  the  Abbe  Hue.  The  face  was  looking  down 
with  calm  indifference  at  Luke,  with  the  unmistakable 
expression :  '■'■  I  know  you  well ,  but  I  don't  want  to 
improve  tlie  acquaintance."  But  Luke's  Celtic  impetu- 
osity refused  to  accept  the  hint ;  and  half  sure  of  him- 
self, and  yet  afraid  to  commit  a  stupid  blunder,  he 
approaclied,  lifted  his  hat,  and  said  :  — 

"  Pardon,  Monsieur  :  je  suis  un  pretre  Catholique  —  " 
The    traveller    drew    himself    up   proudly,   and   said 
stiffly  :  — 

"Et  moi,  je  suis  aussi  un  pretre  Catholique." 
Luke  was  dumbstricken.  This  was  the  man  by  whose 
,side  he  had  sat  two  nights  ago,  and  who  had  been  as 
polite  and  solicitous  as  if  he  had  known  Luke  for  a  life- 
time. Luke  drew  back  now,  stung  with  the  cold  re- 
fusal of  acquaintanceship ;  and  the  train  moved  on. 
But  tlie  Abbe  Hue  watched  him,  watched  him  to  the 
end.  Luke  was  learning  a  little  of  the  world,  and  the 
knowledge  was  creating  a  strange  yearning  for  home. 


THE   RHINE   FALLS  291 

There  was  a  pretty  little  episode  just  as  his  own  train 
was  about  to  start.  Like  all  good  travellers,  Luke  was 
determined  to  guard  against  imposition,  but  to  be  gen- 
erous. And  so  when  a  gorgeous  official  approached 
him  and  said  something  in  German,  of  which  Luke 
understood  but  the  one  word,  commissionaire^  Luke 
shook  his  head  sadly.  But  when  the  porter  came  up 
with  liis  valise,  Luke  was  generous  and  even  royal. 
He  handed  the  porter  a  coin,  which  he  thought  amply 
rewarded  him  for  his  labour.  The  porter  smiled,  lifted 
his  hat,  bowed,  and  departed,  but  returned  in  a  moment 
furious.  lie  leaped  into  the  carriage,  and  gesticulated 
Avildly,  holding  the  wretched  coin  in  his  hand,  and  mut- 
tering jt^/g^w/// .' j,rf(gw>r«V/ .'  It  would  be  difficult  to  say 
by  what  process  of  reasoning  Luke  had  persuaded  him- 
self that  a  pfennig  was  the  German  equivalent  of  a 
franc  ;  but  so  it  was ;  and  this  accounted  for  his  royal 
gesture.  But  there  was  a  difference  of  opinion  clearly  ; 
and  it  emphasized  itself  in  sundry  gestures  and  objur- 
o-ations,  tlie  magnificent  commissionaire  looking  on 
apprcningly. 

"  Un  pfennig  !  oui,  oui  !  c'est  un  franc  !  "  said  Luke. 

The  porter  stamped  about  the  carriage  and  tore  his 
hair. 

"•  Cela  suffit  pour  vous  !  "  said  Luke,  calml}-,  and 
determined  not  to  be  swindled. 

The  German  appealed  to  the  stars  and  angels.  These 
failing,  he  appealed  to  the  connnissionaire.  The  latter 
ri^lled  out  a  string  of  decasvUables.  l^uke  was  con- 
vinced  it  Avas  a  conspiracy.  He  talked  wcmdcrfnl 
French.  They  talked  wonderful  German.  At  last  the 
train  moved  out  slowly.  The  porter  clung  to  the  car- 
riage door  to  the  last.  Then,  bn-athing  a  parting  male- 
diction, he  leaped  down,  panting  and  perspiring.  Luke 
leaned  back  in  the  carriage,  as  they  plunged  into  the 
night,  and  congratulated  himself  on  his  firmness. 

And  then  through  all  the  wonders  of  Cologne  and 
the  Rhine  ;  and  up,  up,  through  the  Black  ^Mountains 
of   the    Hartz,    through  the    thirty-eight  tunnels   that 


292  LUKE  DELMEGE 

gaped  out  of  the  corkscrew  railway,  swallowed  the  train 
and  disgorged  it ;  up,  up,  through  pine  forests  and  along 
the  crest  of  hills,  in  whose  bosom  nestled  the  loveliest 
valleys,  each  with  its  church  and  spire  and  cemetery, 
until  at  last  they  rested  at  Bingen.  Then  a  plunge 
downwards  and  they  were  at  Schaffhausen,  where  the 
mighty  legendary  river  curvets  and  ricochets  in  child- 
ish humour  before  assuming  the  majesty  of  its  seaward 
course. 

Here  Luke  sojourned  for  two  days  —  golden  days 
that  ever  shone  pale  but  resplendent  from  the  mists  of 
memory.  That  Sunday  at  the  Schweizer-Hof  was  a 
dream  for  a  lifetime.  He  went  down  to  early  Mass  at 
the  village,  heard  the  beautiful  Gregorian  for  the  first 
time  since  he  left  Maynooth  ;  heard,  without  under- 
standing, the  sermon  in  German  that  stretched  through 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  ;  breakfasted  at  11.30,  and 
lounged  through  the  day  under  golden  sunshine,  the 
great  river  fretting  itself  at  his  feet,  and  the  horizon 
serrated  with  the  yellow  crests  of  the  mighty  Alps.  In 
the  afternoon  he  sauntered  out  for  a  walk  and  climbed 
Hohen  Fliih.  After  the  narrow  and  limited  and  chok- 
ing surroundings  of  the  past  seven  years,  the  superb 
panorama  that  opened  to  his  eyes  from  the  high  sum- 
mit of  the  hill  fairly  took  away  his  breath.  "Lord," 
he  said,  lifting  his  hat,  "  it  is  good  for  us  to  be  here." 
He  felt  free  again.  The  clear  air,  the  almost  boundless 
horizon,  the  vast  infinity  of  the  mountain  barriers,  clos- 
ing the  vista,  yet  opening  the  imagination  to  undreamed 
sublimities,  the  long  ribbon  of  the  Rhine  flowing  amidst 
its  vinej^ards  and  orchards,  the  villages  clustering  under 
red  roofs  here  and  there  across  the  landscape,  a  hill, 
crested  with  a  crumbling  castle,  as  if  Nature  were  try- 
ing her  'prentice  hand  before  she  attempted  her  eternal 
masterpieces,  and  moving  here  and  there,  little  groups 
of  peaceful  Germans,  enjoying  the  sweet  Sabbath  air —  ■ 
Luke  thought  for  a  moment,  as  he  sat  and  listened  to 
three  German  children,  singing  a  Sunday  hymn,  there 
amongst  the  pines,  of  the  squalor  and  foetor,  the  smoke 


THE   RHINE   FALLS  293 

and  sin,  of  the  mighty  mill  called  England.  The  noise 
and  the  jar  and  the  cold,  deadly,  soulless  meclianism 
were  far  away.  "Ugh  !  "  said  Luke.  "  Thank  God  I 
am  done  with  it  and  the  ugly  dream  forever."  He 
turned  round  to  descend  the  declivity  and  came  face  to 
face  witli  Ilalleck. 

Had  they  been  two  Celts  they  would  have  passed 
each  other  with  a  scowl.  One  was  a  Briton,  and  he 
said  :  — 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Delmege  ?  This  is  a  rare 
pleasure." 

"  How  do  you  do  ?  "  said  Luke,  too  surprised  to  say 
more. 

"I  did  not  know  that  you  had  come  abroad,"  con- 
tinued Halleck.  "  Let  me  hope  that  you  intend  a  long 
sojourn  in  this  delightful  country." 

"  A  long  sojourn  of  twenty-four  hours,"  replied  Luke. 

"  I'm  very  sorry.  I  know  no  place  that  appeals  so 
strongly  to  one's  sense  of  freedom.  When  you  plunge 
into  those  tunnels  of  the  Alps,  you  feel  choked,  as  if  the 
air  were  compressed  into  a  solid  mass  by  the  weight  of 
snow  and  granite.  Here  you  are  free,  with  a  bound- 
less horizon  and  unlimited  loveliness." 

"  Yes,"  said  Luke,  carried  on  by  tlie  stream  ;  "  I  often 
heard  that,  to  see  the  Alps  to  advantage,  one  must 
approach  them  from  Ital}'." 

''Quite  so,"  said  Halleck.  "And  you  must  return  ? 
1  was  hoping  for  the  pleasure  of  your  society  and  co- 
operation here.  I  am  reading  in  the  library  at  St. 
Gall's  for  a  work  I  expect  to  issue  soon  from  the  press, 
and  you  could  be  of  much  assistance." 

"  I  regret  that  my  assistance  heretofore  has  been  to 
give  your  thoughts  a  wrong  bias,"  said  Luke,  seizing  the 
opportunity. 

"Indeed!     A  wrong  bias.      Pray,  how?" 

"  I  regretted  to  hear  that  it  was  some  sermons  of  mine 
drove  you  from  the  Cliurch." 

"But  1  have  not  been  driven  from  the  Churi-h.  Tiiat 
is  quite  a  mistake.     Nay,  more,  I  cannot  be  driven." 


294  LUKE  DELMEGE 


I 


1 


"  But  pardon  me  for  the  harsh  expression,  the  Church 
has  repudiated  you,  and  you  cannot  approach  the 
Sacraments." 

"  Cannot  ?  Why,  I  do.  I  have  been  to  Communion 
this  morning,  down  there  at  Schaffhausen." 

"  We  regard  such  conduct  as  sacrilegious  and  dis- 
honourable," said  Luke,  exasperated  by  Halleck's  cool- 
ness. 

"  Oh!  and  who  cares  what  you  regard  ?  Your  opinion 
is  of  no  consequence  to  me  whatsoever." 

"  I  have  not  sought  this  interview,  Mr.  Halleck," 
said  Luke,  "  and  with  your  permission  I  shall  terminate 
it.  But  you  have  no  right  to  utter  a  calumny ;  and, 
as  a  gentleman,  you  should  promptly  retract  what  you 
Avrote  to  Miss  Lefevril  concerning  my  misdirection." 

"  But  if  it  is  true  ?  Your  theology  may  allow  it ;  but 
I,  as  an  English  gentleman,  cannot  tell  a, falsehood." 

"But  your  statement  that  our  priests  were  —  well  — 
liberal,  and,  indeed,  rather  free  in  their  opinions  ;  and 
that  I  especially  shared  that  liberalism,  is  incorrect  and, 
pardon  me  —  a  lie.  We  hold  firmly  and  unreservedly 
the  dogmatic  teachings  of  the  Church." 

"  Then  you  must  take  the  alternative  —  that  your 
knowledge  of  the  English  language,  which,  indeed,  like 
everything  English,  does  not  lend  itself  to  the  restric- 
tions of  dogma,  is  extremely  limited.  You  don't  seem 
to  understand  the  vast  responsibilities  of  words  in  sol- 
emn places."  I 

"  It  may  be  so,"  said  Luke,  liumbly.  " 

They  were  silent  for  a  few  minutes.  The  three  little 
Swiss  girls  were  still  singing  beneath  them  on  a  rustic 
seat,  under  a  clump  of  firs.     At  last  Halleck  spoke  :  — 

"  Let  us  not  part  in  anger,  Mr.  Delmege.  I  am  sorry 
I  have  hurt  you.  But — the  faithful  Israelites  would 
do  well,  during  their  captivity,  not  to  look  too  curiously 
on  the  gods  of  Babylon." 

Halleck  raised  his  hat  as  he  passed  down  the  steep 
steps  to  the  road. 

Had  this  taken  place  in  London  it  would  have  given 


J 


THE   RHINE   FALLS  295 

Luke  a  fit  of  depression  for  several  clays.  Here,  in  the 
bright  sunshine  and  crystal  atmosphere,  he  flung  the 
moment's  chagrin  instantly  aside.  So,  too,  in  tlie  after- 
noon, tlie  discovery  that  a  pfennig,  instead  of  being 
equivalent  to  a  franc,  was  equivalent  to  the  hundredth 
part  of  a  franc,  sent  the  blood  mounting  to  Luke's  fore- 
head, but  only  for  a  moment. 

"  That  porter  should  liave  assassinated  me,"  he  said, 
and  thought  no  more  of  it.  Only  there  was  a  craving 
in  his  heart,  growing  every  minute,  for  the  peace  and 
serenity,  the  security  and  happiness,  of  home. 

"  The  crust  of  bread  and  the  cruse  of  water  are  better 
than  the  fleshpots  of  the  Egyptians,"  he  thought. 

He  left  the  vast  dining-hall  early  that  evening.  The 
splendours  of  society  were  beginning  to  pall  on  him. 
He  craved  rest  for  thought  from  the  glitter  and  sparkle 
of  fashion  ;  and  long  before  the  last  dishes  were  brought 
around,  he  had  ensconced  himself  in  the  gas-lit  veranda 
at  the  farthest  window.  Here,  with  a  small  round  table 
by  his  side,  and  some  coffee  and  rusks,  he  hid  behind  a 
heavy  curtain,  and  awaited  the  illumination  of  the 
falls. 

At  half-past  nine  the  entire  body  of  visitors  had 
assembled  in  the  veranda,  and  the  lights  were  lowered 
until  the  place  had  become  quite  dark.  Darkness,  too, 
liung  over  the  valley,  and  no  one  could  dream  that  man 
was  there.  l>ut  a  pearly  glimmer,  as  of  twilight,  shone 
where  the  eye  was  drawn  by  hearing,  as  the  fall  fretted 
in  the  sliallows,  or  was  torn  into  streamlets  by  tlie 
granite  rocks  beneath.  Then,  as  at  light's  lirst  dawn- 
ing, a  faint  pink,  roseate  in  its  heart,  and  fading  into 
purple,  streamed  across  the  valley,  and  the  falls  blushed 
under  the  revelation,  and  seemed  to  answer  louder  to 
the  call  of  light.  ^\nd  so  the  pink  dawn  hovered  o'er 
the  valley,  until  it  })aused,  hesitated,  faded,  and  there 
was  darkness  again,  but  for  the  voice  that  pierced  it  — 
the  voice  of  many  waters  in  the  night. 

Luke  turned  around,  and  saw  standing,  quite  close  to 
his  chair,  —  for  every  seat  was  occupied,  —  a  feeble  old 


296  LUKE  DELMEGE 

man  and  his  daughter.     He  leaned  heavily  on  her  arm^  | 

and  his  white  Iniir  made  a  light  in  the  darkened  room. 
Instantly  Luke  arose  and  proffered  his  cliair.  Tlie 
young  lady  thanked  him,  as  the  old  man  sank  wearily 
into  the  arm-chair.  She  took  her  place  near  him,  and 
Luke  went  back  into  the  shadows  and  sat  on  a  rouo-h 
bench  that  ran  around  the  wall.  The  falls  were  ligfhted 
again  with  green  and  then  with  blue  lights,  and  the 
waiters  came  and  raised  the  gas-jets.  Man's  little  play 
with  mighty  nature  was  over. 

As  Luke  rose  to  pass  from  the  veranda,  a  voice  said 
to  him  :  — 

"  I  didn't  know  in  the  darkness  that  it  was  Father 
Delinege  we  had  to  thank  for  his  courtesy." 

It  was  Barbara  Wilson.  Luke  flushed  with  pleasure. 
After  all  his  neglect,  it  was  comforting  to  know  that 
he  had  unconsciously  done  a  small  favour.  And  then 
through  lier  lips  his  country  and  home  spoke  to  him. 

"  Miss  Wilson  !  "  he  said.  "•  It  is  an  unexpected 
pleasure  to  meet  you.  I  didn't  know  you  were  travel- 
ling with  your  father." 

•'  It  is  not  father,"  she  said,  her  lips  trembling  ;  "  it 
is  Louis.     You  will  scarce  recognize  him." 

She  led  him  over  to  where  Louis  was  still  sitting. 
His  face  was  turned  outward  towards  the  night,  and  it 
was  the  face  of  death.  His  sad  eyes  saw  but  darkness, 
and  his  trembling  hands  clutched  at  the  air,  as  the 
hands  of  a  half-perished  outcast  spread  for  warmth  be- 
fore a  fire.  And  his  hair  streamed  down  on  his  shoul- 
ders, and  it  was  white  in  the  dreary  gas-light,  not  with 
the  venerable  silver  of  honoured  age,  but  with  the 
ghastly  lustre  of  blanched  and  bloodless  youth.  He 
turned  at  his  sister's  voice  and  tried  to  rise,  but  fell 
back  helplessly. 

'■'■  Yes,  of  course,  Father  Delmege,"  he  said,  not  look- 
ing upwards,  but  out  into  the  night,  his  weak  memory 
trying  to  grip  the  slippery  and  evanescent  shadows  of 
the  past.  "  Yes,  of  course.  Father  —  I  beg  pardon  — 
how  do  you  do,  sir  ?     I  hope  you  are  well." 


THE   RHINE   FALLS  297 

"  Don't  you  remember,  Louis  dearest,  don't  you  re- 
member Lisnalee  and  uncle,  and  all  our  pleasant  days  ? 
This  is  Father  Delmege,  who  is  always  so  kind." 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure.  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  I 
hope  I  see  you  very  well,"  said  the  poor  invalid. 

"Now,  Louis  dear,  do  rouse  j^ourself.  To-morrow  we 
shall  go  on  to  Lucerne,  and  you  must  pick  up  strength 
for  the  journey.  Were  not  the  illuminations  beautiful  ? 
It  was  Father  Delmege  who  kindly  gave  us  his  place." 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure.  How  much  do  I  owe  you, 
sir?  I  always  pay  promptly.  But,  Barbara,  why  did 
you  let  them  throw  that  horrid  limelight  on  the  stage  ? 
No  artist  would  have  done  it.  If  Elfrida  was  to  throw 
herself  from  that  bridge  it  would  be  in  the  darkness. 
I  saw  her  ;  'twas  Avell  done,  I  tell  you.  Madame  Lerida 
is  an  artist.      Did  you  hear  that  scream  ?     Oh  !   Oli  I  " 

Barbara  raised  her  head  and  looked  pitifully  at  Luke. 

"  There,"  said  Louis,  still  wandering,  "there  she  goes 
adown  the  stream,  her  long  hair  floating  behind  her,  and 
she  tossed  from  side  to  side  of  the  rapids.  Hark  !  there 
'tis  again  !     Elfrida  !   Elfrida  !  " 

This  he  shrieked  aloud,  so  that  the  waiters  paused  as 
they  arranged  the  breakfast  tables,  and  one  or  two  timid 
visitors  hurriedly  fled  the  ver-Mula. 

"This  won't  do,"  said  Luke,  kindly;  "we  must  get 
him  away." 

"Come,  dearest,"  said  Barbara,  her  hand  around 
Louis'  neck.     "  Come,  "tis  bedtime." 

He  rose  wearily,  seemingly  anxious  to  follow  his 
dream  throurjh  the  nio;lit  and  adown  the  river. 

"  It  was  a  clever  impersonation,"  he  continued.  "  That 
leap  from  the  bridge  was  perfect.  But  to  throw  that 
vile  calcium  on  such  an  artiste  at  such  a  moment  was 
an  outrage,  sir,  an  outrage  !  " 

"  Tliis  is  Father  Delmege,  Louis  dear,"  said  Barbara, 
as  Luke  hel])ed  the  poor  invalid  forward.  "  You  re- 
member, don't  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  of  course.  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  I  hope 
I  see  you  well." 


298  LUKE  DELMEGE 

Luke  helped  along  the  corridor,  and  then  stood  still, 
at  the  foot  of  the  staircase,  watching  the  two  figures, 
the  white-haired  imbecile,  and  the  tall,  lithe  form  of  the 
fair  sister,  toiling  wearily  step  by  step  up  to  the  second 
corridor.  Then  he  went  out  into  the  piazza.  The  full 
moon  was  now  rising,  and  just  casting  her  beams  down 
the  valley  and  across  the  chasm  to  the  old  castle  that 
held  watch  and  ward  over  the  turbulent  youth  of  the 
river.  How  paltry  and  mean  are  the  feeble  attempts  of 
men,  contrasted  with  the  enterprises  of  the  Almighty  ! 
The  wretched  illumination  of  an  hour  agfo  —  what  a 
sacrilege  on  the  majesty  of  nature,  now  that  nature  it- 
self was  triumphant  !  Luke  gazed  down  the  valley  ; 
but  he  saw  —  the  two  weary  figures  toiling  up  the  long 
stairs  —  strong,  tender  womanhood  supporting  a  broken 
and  disjointed  manhood.  He  saw  a  sister's  love  cov- 
ering a  brother's  shame.  He  saw  the  old  Greek  sacri- 
fice again  —  the  sister  imperilling  her  life  and  honour 
to  pay  due,  solemn  rites  to  the  dead.  How  paltry  his 
learned  and  aesthetic  friends  seem  now  !  How  con- 
temptible their  dreary  platitudes  !  How  empty  and 
hollow  their  fine  theorizing  about  humanity  and  the 
race  !  "  Seek  the  God  in  man  !  "  Was  there  ever  such 
blasphemy  ?  And  himself  —  what  had  been  his  life  for 
seven  years  ?  Compared  with  the  noble  self -surrender 
of  this  young  girl,  how  hollow  and  empty  and  pitiful 
had  been  his  fine  sermons,  his  dignified  platitudes,  his 
straining  after  effect,  his  misdirection.  Conscience  for 
the  first  time  whispered  "  Idiota,"  but  too  faintly  to  be 
heeded. 

A  hand  was  laid  on  his  arm,  and  Halleck,  removing  a 
cigar  from  his  mouth,  said  :  — 

"  I  would  recommend  you,  Mr.  Delmege,  to  get  that 
young  friend  of  yours  home  as  soon  as  possible.  It  will 
be  hardly  pleasant  for  her  to  travel  with  a  coffin." 

He  went  to  his  room  —  a  very  beautiful  room,  with 
its  parquetted  floor,  polished  and  spotless  —  but  he 
could  not  sleep.  He  did  not  desire  it.  He  coveted  a 
few  hours  of  the  luxury  of   thought.     He  had  so  much 


THE   RHINE   FALLS  299 

to  think  about,  and  so  many  thoughts  and  memories 
fraught  with  the  pain  of  pleasure,  and  so  many  with  the 
delight  of  pain.  He  opened  his  window,  through  which 
the  full  moon  was  streaming,  and  stood  on  the  balcony 
that  overhung  the  garden.  The  night  view  was  limited, 
for  the  garden  sloped  upwards  to  a  little  wood,  where, 
laced  against  the  moonlight,  the  iron-work  of  a  summer- 
house  was  traced.  He  leaned  over  the  balustrade  and 
gave  himself  up  to  thought.  It  was  a  turning-point  in 
his  life.  Just  then  the  deep  tones  of  the  church-bell 
tolling  the  midnight  hour  floated  u[)  the  valley,  and 
Luke  thought  he  heard  voices  in  the  garden  beneath. 

"  Here  come  Lorenzo  and  Jessica,"  he  said.     "  '  How 
sweet  the  moonlight,'  etc,      I  must  go." 

Ah,  no  !  Not  moonlight  lovers,  wdth  all  the  glamour 
of  affection  and  the  poetry  of  life  streaming  around 
them,  but  the  wrecked  life  and  the  guardian  angel  again. 
Slowly  they  came  from  the  shadows  into  the  moonlight, 
and  Luke  was  not  ashamed  to  observe  them.  The  poor 
gray  head  lay  heavily  against  the  sister's  shoulder,  or 
rather  on  her  breast,  as  she  twined  her  arm  around  his 
neck  and  supported  his  failing  steps.  Clearly  there 
was  no  sleep  for  that  fretted  and  irritated  brain,  or  such 
sleep  only  as  makes  the  awakening,  heaven.  Slowly  they 
passed  under  tlie  balcony,  and  here  Luke  heard  the 
prayers  that  Barljara  whispered  in  her  brother's  ears  — 
whispered,  because  her  gentle  spirit  feared  for  the 
sleepers  overliead.  But  Luke  could  hear  the  rattle  of 
tlie  heads  as  tliey  sli]iped  througli  her  fingers,  and  could 
see  the  flashing  of  the  silver  cross  in  the  moonlight. 
On,  on  they  went  slowly,  as  the  gravel  groaned  beneath 
the  heavy  steps  of  the  invalid.  And  as  they  passed, 
Luke  saw  tlie  beautiful  uplifted  face  and  t lie  ricli,  black 
hair  caught  liack  from  the  pure  white  foreliead.  And  as 
ho  closed  the  window  of  his  bedroom  softly  and  brushed 
his  eyes,  he  said  :  — 

"She  is  not  mortal.     She  is  a  spirit  and  a  symbol. 
It  is  mv  countrv's  heroism  and  sorrow." 

Next   morning,    without   a    moment's   hesitation,  he 


300  LUKE  DELMEGE 

came  over  to  the  table  where  Barbara  and  Louis  sat, 
and  said  :  — 

"  Miss  Wilson,  we  must  return  immediately.  I  am 
en  route  for  Ireland,  and  you  and  Louis  must  come." 

She  gave  a  little  glad  cry  of  surprise  and  said  :  — 

"■  Oh,  thank  God  !  We  have  got  our  orders.  The 
landlord  has  demanded  our  rooms." 

"  Very  good.     Now,  get  ready." 

"  But,  Father,  we  must  not  take  you  out  of  your  way." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Luke.  "  Our  whole  study  now 
must  be  to  get  Louis  back  to  London." 

"  And  Ireland.  Oh,  how  happy  we  shall  be  with 
dear  uncle  !  You  know  he  has  asked  us  to  come  to  him 
until  Louis  is  quite  restored." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  Yes,  your  uncle  is  a  good 
man.  Cheer  up,  there  are  glad  days  in  store  for  us 
all." 

And  so  Luke  Delmege,  the  optimist,  argued,  encour- 
aged, cheered  the  lonely  girl  on  that  weary  journey  to 
Lucerne,  Geneva,  Paris,  London,  and  set  them  down  at 
No.  11  Albemarle  Buildings,  and  felt  that  he  had  never 
been  happier  under  the  sublime  elation  of  a  little  self- 
sacrifice. 

It  was  late  at  night  when  he  arrived  from  Switzer- 
land, and,  after  he  had  left  Barbara  and  her  brother  at 
their  lodgings,  he  made  his  way  across  the  city  and  the 
bridge  to  the  Cathedral.  He  was  thinking  of  many 
things  —  Halleck,  Dr.  Drysdale,  Barbara,  Louis,  Sea- 
thorpe,  Lisnalee,  England,  Ireland,  the  past,  and  his 
future.  He  had  cut  through  the  city  by  a  short  pas- 
sage through  the  slums,  but  he  had  no  fear.  He  knew 
the  places  Avell.  The  wretched  pavements  were  silent 
of  the  noise  of  human  traffic,  for  midnight  had  not 
come.  He  liad  just  emerged  into  a  square  well  known 
to  him,  for  it  had  been  in  his  district  formerly,  when 
he  saw  a  crowd  gathering  around  a  cab  a  little  ahead 
of  him,  and  the  portly  English  driver  gesticulating  vio- 
lently. As  he  passed  he  heard  the  latter  saying,  in  a 
tone  of  anger  and  impatience,  to  the  crowd  :  — 


THE   RHINE   FALLS  301 

"  A  rum  hold  Hirish  passon.  Wants  to  get  down 
'ere  somewhere  ;  but  Tm  blessed  if  the  hold  bloke  knows 
where.     But  Fll  make  'im  pay;   I  will,  I  tell  you." 

Compassion  for  a  countryman  in  distress,  even  though 
he  were  a  heretic,  made  Luke  pause  and  approach. 
As  he  did,  he  heard  a  deep  voice  from  the  dark  re- 
cess :  — 

"  Did  the  Lord  ever  make  such  a  stupid  lot  as  these 
English  ?  They  don't  know  their  own  country.  Come 
here,  honest  woman,  and  direct  me.  Glory  be  to  God, 
and  isn't  that  Luke  Delmege  ?  Luke  !  Luke  !  come 
here  !     There's  me  dream  out !  " 

Luke  came  nearer,  and  recognized,  with  an  effort,  the 
Rev.  Father  Meade,  incumbent  of  Gortnagoshel. 

"  Wliat  in  the  world  ?"  —  he  was  about  to  say,  when 
Father  Meade  interrupted. 

"  You  got  my  letter  ?  Of  course  you  did.  I  knew 
ye'd  be  looking  out  for  me.  But,  I  couldn't  rest  easy, 
night  or  day,  till  I  come.  But,  Lord,  what  a  pack  of 
savages  !  They  don't  know  their  own  names.  Tell  that 
ruffian  on  the  box  to  drive  us  to  Denliam  Court." 

"  You're  in  Denham  Court,  Father  Meade,"  said  Luke, 
"but  what  Avild-goose  chase  are  you  on  now?" 

"  Wild-goose  chase  ?  Faitli,  it  isn't,  me  boy  I  Now, 
find  out  No.  25  S  —  whatever  S  is  !  " 

"  I  see,"  said  Luke ;  "  drive  25  South,  my  good  man, 
just  over  there." 

"Now,  so  far,  so  good.  Allua  is  here,"  the  old  priest 
whispered  to  Luke,  "and  Fm  come  for  her." 

He  showed  Luke  a  wretched  sH])  of  paper,  in  a  still 
more  wretched  envelope,  sealed  with  soap,  stampless, 
ink-stained,  and  yellow  :  and  surely  enough  —  "  Denham 
Court,  25  S.,  London,  S.W."  was  markt'd  there. 

"  What  next  ?  ""   thought  Luke.      But  he  said  :  — 

"  You  may  not  know.  Father  Meade,  the  character  of 
this  place  and  its  neighbourliood.  This  is  a  place  where 
a  person  must  be  careful  —  " 

"1  neither  know  nor  care,"  said  the  old  priest;  "all 
I  know  is  that  Allua  is  here,  that  she  is  in  trouble,  and 


302  LUKE  DELMEGE 

has  called  for  me ;  and  here  I  am.  Stay  here,  my  good 
man,"  he  said  to  the  driver.  "  If  you  stir  from  that 
spot,  I'll  take  the  law  of  you." 

"  All  right,  sir,"  said  the  driver :  "  but  you'll  have  to 
pay  for  it." 

"  Come,  Luke,"  said  Father  Meade,  cavalierly,  as  he 
walked  coolly  into  the  wretched  hall  and  up  the  broken 
stairs.     "  Ah,  if  I  had  that  bosthoon  in  Ireland  !  " 

On  the  first  landing  he  knocked  at  four  doors  in  suc- 
cession. There  was  some  shuffling  and  pulling  of  chairs, 
but  no  answer.  Up  the  creaking  stairs  again,  and  again 
he  knocked,  and  no  reply. 

"  They're  all  asleep,  or  dead,"  he  said. 

Higher  still  and  higher,  till  they  came  to  an  attic. 
Here  was  the  sound  of  voices.  They  entered  a  wret:hed 
room.  A  feeble  light  was  burning  in  a  tin  sconce.  And 
by  the  faint  illumination  they  saw  a  wretched  pallet,  on 
which  lay  an  invalid  in  the  last  stages  of  consumption. 
She  was  gray  and  old,  but  her  eyes  were  young  as  they 
challenged  the  priest. 

"  You  got  my  letter,"  she  said  faintly  in  an  English 
accent. 

Father  Meade  hesitated.  No  one  but  the  Father  who 
is  in  heaven  could  recognize  in  that  poor  wreck,  the 
child  —  the  convent  child  of  so  many  years  ago.  And 
the  accent  entirely  bothered  Father  Meade. 

"  Are  you  AUua  ?  "  he  said  doubtingly. 

"  I  am,"  she  said  faintly.  "  You're  changed  too, 
Father  ;  but  the  Blessed  Mother  sent  you.  Take  me 
from  this." 

Father  Meade  hesitated.  He  always  boasted  that  he 
was  "a  man  of  the  world";  and  whenever,  at  a  visita- 
tion dinner,  he  had  to  propose  his  Bishop's  health,  he 
always  wound  up  the  litany  of  praises  by  declaring  that 
his  Lordship  was,  above  all  things  else,  "  a  man  of  the 
world."  So  he  was  not  going  to  be  takeii  in  by  a  girl 
with  an  Engflish  accent. 

"  I  came  for  you,"  he  said,  "  but  I  want  to  make  sure. 
Say  the  lines  again." 


THE  EHINE   FALLS  303 

The  poor  patient  smiled  at  the  absurdity.  But  she 
gathered  her  strength  and  repeated  :  — 

There  is  a  green  island  in  lone  Gougaune  Barra, 
Where  Aliua  of  song  rushes  forth  like  an  arrow. 

"  Good,"  said  Father  Meade.  "  And  you  said  ?  "  he 
cocked  his  ear. 

"  I  said  —  '  Alleluia  of  song,'  because  the  priests  were 
saying  Alleluia  all  tliat  week." 

"  Good,"  said  Father  Meade.     "  And  I  said  ?  " 

"  You  said  — '  My  little  children,  wherever  you  are, 
North,  South,  East,  West,  remember  I  am  always  your 
father  and  your  friend ;  and  whenever  you  are  in 
trouble  call  on  me  and  I'll  come  to  you.'  " 

"  Never  say  another  word,"  cried  Father  Meade. 
"  Come  here,  you  whipsters,  dress  her  at  once,  and  be 
quick  about  it,"  he  cried  to  the  two  girls,  who  sank  back 
from  the  awful  presence  of  the  priests. 

The  two  priests  went  downstairs,  Luke  bewildered, 
Father  Meade  exultant. 

"No  use  in  talking,"  he  said,  "God  beats  us  all. 
Just  when  we  think  we  are  doing  something  of  our- 
selves. He  steps  in  and  shows  His  hand." 

"  Wliere  are  you  going  to  take  that  poor  girl  ?  "  said 
the  practical  Luke. 

"  Oh,  I  never  thought  of  that,"  said  Father  IMeade. 
"  ril  take  her  to  some  hotel,  and  off  to  Limerick  in  the 
m(n-ning.  Of  course,  she  thinks  I  don't  know  any- 
thing ;   but  1  know  all."     And  he  winked  at  Luke. 

In  a  few  minutes  tlie  girls  came  downstairs,  bearing 
the  invalid  between  them.  The  hope  and  its  realization 
had  braced  her  up,  and  she  looked  almost  vigorous  as 
she  stepped  from  the  dreadful  place. 

"  You  ain"t  agoin'  to  take  that  there  u'al  in  the  cab  '!  " 
said  the  driver. 

"Aren't  I  ?  Mind  yer  own  business,  me  man,  or  FU 
make  you." 

"Then  you'll  pay  for  it,  1  tell  you,"  said  the  man  in 
his  bewilderment. 


304  LUKE  DELMEGE 

Gently  and  reverently  they  got  the  poor  girl  into  the 
cab,  Luke  standing  by  motionless.  He  was  wonder- 
ing what  Amiel  Lefevril  would  say  to  such  divine  altru- 
ism as  this.  The  two  girls  stood  at  the  door.  They 
had  said  good-bye  to  their  companion.  Sorrow,  hope- 
lessness, despair  were  on  their  faces.  And  just  as  the 
driver  flicked  his  horse,  and  they  were  moving  off,  they 
flung  out  their  hands  in  a  sudden  gesture  and  sobbed:  — 

"  Father,  Father,  don't  leave  us  !  " 

"  Eh  ?  Eh  ?  What's  that  ?  What's  that  ?  Stop,  you 
ruffian,  or  I'll  knock  you  down.  Come  here,  me  poor 
girls.     What  do  ye  want  ?  " 

"  We  want  to  go  with  you.  Father,  anywhere,  any- 
where.    Oh  !  for  God's  sake,  Father,  don't  leave  us  !  " 

What  could  he  do  ?  It  was  most  imprudent ;  but  he 
had  too  much  faith  in  God  to  hesitate. 

"  Come  !  "  he  said,  whilst  the  cabman  growled  furi- 
ously, and  Luke  gazed  in  stupid  amazement.  "  Come, 
and  let  God  do  the  rest  !  " 

Luke  called  to  see  the  Wilsons  next  morning.  He 
found  Louis  actually  revived.  There  had  been  a 
reaction  after  the  journey.  Luke  told  them,  with 
laughter  and  horror,  of  the  Quixotic  drollery  of  Father 
Meade. 

"•  He's  taking  them  to  Limerick,"  he  said,  "  to  the 
Magdalen  Asylum  there.  I  have  a  sister  in  that  con- 
vent, you  know.  Miss  Wilson.  Some  day  I  hope  to 
have  the  pleasure  of  making  you  acquainted  with  her. 
We  shall  call  some  day  when  we  shall  have  leisure." 

He  was  surprised  to  see  her  start  and  put  her  hand 
over  her  heart  with  a  gesture  of  pain.  The  very  sug- 
gestion of  fallen  womanhood  was  such  a  shock  and  sur- 
prise to  such  a  pure  soul.  Magdalen  !  Magdalen  !  the 
dearest  of  all  the  saints  outside  the  charmed  circle  of 
the  Incarnation  —  how  does  it  happen  that  there  is  a 
sting  of  pain  in  all  the  honeyed  sweetness  of  that  dear 
name  ? 

"  She  must  have  been  told  of  Margery's  unkind 
remarks,"  thought  Luke. 


THE   RHINE   FALLS  305 

"  Now  it  is  all  settled,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  be  at  Euston 
to  meet  tlie  8.30  down  mail  on  this  day  week.  And  you 
shall  both  meet  me  there.     Is  tliat  all  settled  ?  " 

Of  course.  Quite  understood.  Everything  now  was 
moving  smoothly. 


CHAPTER  XXIY 

THE   HALL   OF   EBLIS 

Father  Sheldon  was  sorry,  downright  sorry,  for 
his  friend  and  confrere,  Luke  Delraege.  As  a  good 
Briton,  he  was  bound  not  to  manifest  tliis  regret  in  any 
way.  But  he  had  pleaded  with  the  Bishop,  again  and 
again,  not  to  allow  this  bright  young  genius  to  leave 
the  diocese,  and  be  flung  away  on  the  tame  and  easy 
work  of  an  Irish  mission.  The  old  Vicar  warmly  sec- 
onded his  efforts,  although  neither  knew  of  the  other's 
sympathetic  cooperation.  But  the  Bishop  judged  other- 
wise ;  and  if  he  ever  mistrusted  his  own  judgment,  the 
opinion  of  Dr.  Drysdale  tended  to  confirm  his  belief 
that  the  conversion  of  England  must  be  accomplished 
without  the  assistance  of  the  Rev.  Luke  Delmege. 

"  I  don't  agree  with  Drysdale,"  said  the  Vicar,  when 
the  Bishop  had  explained  the  many  letters  of  the  for- 
mer. "  He  belongs  to  the  old  school  —  timid,  fearsome, 
conservative.  We  want  the  young,  who  despise  con- 
sequences, so  long  as  the  great  object  is  attained." 

No  use.  It  was  decided  to  let  Luke  go,  and  Father 
Sheldon  was  very  sad.  It  was  one  of  the  reasons  Avhy 
he  leaned  his  head  heavily  on  his  hands,  one  of  tliese 
dark  September  evenings,  just  after  Luke  had  returned 
from  his  trip.  He  didn't  care  to  light  the  gas.  He  sat 
in  the  twilight  and  was  sad.  The  hour  was  wearing 
on  to  supper-time,  when  one  of  the  housemaids  knocked, 
and  told  him  a  lady  wished  to  see  him. 

He  rose  promptly,  and  went  down  to  find  Barbara 
Wilson  waiting  for  him.  The  gas-jet  was  burning  ; 
and  he  saw  that  she  was  crying  and  in  terror. 

300 


THE   HALL   OF    EBLIS  307 

"  Father,"  she  said,  "  I'm  in  great  trouble.  Louis  is 
gone  !  " 

"Dead?"  said  Father  Sheldon,  slightly  shocked. 

"  No,  not  dead  ;  but  he  has  escaped  ;  gone  I  know 
not  where.  I  left  him  for  a  moment  this  evening  to 
see  an  old  school  friend,  who  had  called  ;  and  he  has 
vanished,  and  Oh  !   Father,  I  fear  such  dreadful  things." 

"  Have  you  no  trace  ?  He  was  of  remarkable  appear- 
ance." 

"  Not  the  least.  I  have  spoken  to  all  the  police  on 
the  beat  ;  but  there's  not  a  trace.  Oh,  dear  !  it  is  the 
river,  the  river,  I  dread." 

The  supper  gong  was  ringing,  but  Father  Sheldon 
did  not  hear  it. 

"  I  must  go  with  you,"  he  said.  He  rushed  into  the 
church  and  said  a  hasty  prayer  ;  then,  taking  his  hat 
and  cane,  he  went  out  on  the  wild  chase.  Whither  ? 
North,  south,  east,  west,  the  wilderness  of  streets 
stretched  before  him  ;  and,  as  he  hesitated,  the  wild 
tumult  of  the  sweeping  multitude  almost  took  him  off 
his  feet. 

"  Nothing  but  God  can  guide  us  !  "  he  said.  "  Let 
us  move  on  and  pray.     Have  you  the  least  suspicion  ?  " 

"  Only  that  he  might  have  gone  to  a  theatre,  or  Mrs. 
Wenham's,  or  an  opium-den.  Oh  !  dear,  dear,  and  his 
soul  was  just  saved  !  " 

"  It  is  not  lost,"  said  Father  Sheldon,  hurrying  along  ; 
"and  3'ou  alone  can  save  it  yet." 

They  took  a  cab,  down  to  the  Criterion,  the  Alham- 
bra,  the  Gaiety,  places  that  Louis  used  fre(pient  in  his 
heyday.  In  all  these  the  people  were  pouring  in  a 
deep,  wide  stream.  The  police  on  guard  saw  no  one 
answering  their  description  of  Louis.  The  oiticials 
were  too  ])usy  to  give  more  than  a  laconic  No  !  IJack 
again  throughout  the  crowded  streets  on  their  hopeless 
quest  for  soul  and  body,  Barbara  weeping  and  softly 
praying,  her  companion  staring  under  gas-lamps  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  a  skull  and  a  mass  of  whitened  hair. 
Was  there  ever  such  a  hopeless  effort,  ever  such  a  weary 


308  LUKE   DELMEGE 

and  despairful  attempt  ?     Up  and  down,  up  and  down 
the  dreadful  streets  of  the  City  of  Dreadful  Night. 

"  I  fear  it  is  hopeless,"  said  Father  Sheldon.  "  Miss 
Wilson,  let  me  see  you  home,  and  I  shall  place  the  mat- 
ter in  the  hands  of  a  detective." 

No,  no.  That  will  not  do  for  a  sister's  love  for  a 
brother's  soul.  She  gratefully  thanked  the  good  priest, 
but  insisted  that  he  should  now  return.  The  night  quest 
and  the  night  sorrow  should  be  her  own. 

"One  more  attempt,"  he  said;  "and  then  I  shall 
leave  you  to  God.  What  is  the  name  and  address  of 
that  —  woman  ?  " 

Back  again  through  the  dreary  streets,  in  and  out, 
until  they  plunged  into  the  quietness  and  solitude  of 
a  fashionable  square,  drove  past  massive  railings  and 
marble  flights  of  steps,  now  in  the  glare  from  some 
lighted  drawing-room,  now  in  the  gloom  of  the  shadow 
of  an  unoccupied  mansion.  Yes,  here  it  is,  brilliantly 
illuminated  ;  and  Barbara,  seeking  a  lost  soul,  stands 
under  the  heavy  gasalier  in  the  vast  hall.  Servants  in 
scarlet  livery  swept  by  her,  stared  at  her,  passed  away. 
Doors  opened  and  shut,  and  revealed  the  magnificence 
of  splendidly  decorated  rooms.  There  was  a  buzz  of 
conversation  somewhere  in  the  vicinity.  And  the  pale, 
beautiful  girl  stood  like  a  statue  in  the  hall  —  stood  and 
despaired.  What  could  a  stooped,  and  shattered,  and 
broken  invalid  be  doing  in  a  place  like  this  ?  She  was 
asked  into  a  small  parlour  behind  the  drawing-room,  and 
in  a  few  moments  Mrs.  Wenham  entered,  stared  angrily, 
advanced,  and  said,  in  a  tone  of  icy  contempt :  — 

"  Well  ?  " 

She  was  dressed  for  a  ball,  dressed  with  all  the  luxury 
and  taste  and  even  splendour  society  demands  from  her 
elect.  She  was  quite  as  tall  as  Barbara,  and  wished  she 
was  quite  as  beautiful.  But  no !  There  was  a  grace 
and  sweetness  in  this  young  girl  that  threw  all  the 
meretricious  splendours  of  the  other  woman  in  the 
shade.  And  the  woman  of  the  world  saw  it,  and  it  did 
not  please  her. 


THE   HALL   OF    EBLIS  309 

"  You  remember  me,  Mrs.  Wenliam,"  said  Barbara, 
faltering.  "  We  met  in  Dublin  some  years  ago,  and 
yon  were  so  kind." 

The  cold  face  stared  blankly  at  her.  Barbara  felt 
there  is  no  hope  here. 

"  I  understood  that  my  brother  Louis  used  sometimes 
—  sometimes  —  " 

Mow  could  she  put,  poor  child,  in  the  world's  lan- 
guage her  wild  thoughts? 

'•  Your  brother  Louis  used  —  sometimes  —  ?  "  repeated 
Mrs.  Wenham,  slowly. 

"  Sometimes,"  wept  Barbara,  "  used  visit  here,  owing 
to  your  great  kindness.  And  he's  lost  —  he's  lost  — 
Oh  !  dear  Mrs.  \Venham,  he's  lost  !  He  has  gone  out 
to-night,  and  we  know  not  wdiither.  But  Oh  !  if  you 
could  tell  me  —  he's  so  unwell,  so  near  death  ;  and  Oh  ! 
his  soul,  his  soul !     He's  not  fit  for  the  judgment." 

The  woman  of  the  world  turned  pale.  She  had  in- 
tended to  dismiss  this  girl  haughtily,  angrily,  contem])- 
tuously.  But  these  words  staggered  her  resolution. 
Once  before,  and  only  once,  and  that  was  just  after 
leaving  the  company  of  this  same  young  girl,  she  had 
lieard  similar  words.  Not  since  or  before.  These 
hideous  things  were  shiehled  from  her  as  carefully  as 
midnight  draughts,  or  reeking  drains,  or  the  chance 
pollution  of  fetid  air.  What  had  she  to  do  with  such 
things  —  this  spoiled  and  petted  child?  They  were  for 
the  poor  and  the  vulgar  —  the  housemaid  and  the  but- 
ler—  not  for  her.  They  ^\ere  for  the  proletariat  —  tlie 
toilers,  the  labourers,  as  a  just  retribution  for  their  mis- 
deeds, and  a  proper  perquisite  for  criminal  poverty  ; 
but  not  for  the  scented  and  curled  darlings  of  fortune. 
And  here  this  young  girl,  Avith  the  clear-cut,  i)allid  face, 
the  rounil,  calm  foreiiead,  and  the  gracious  eyes,  pre- 
sumes to  introduce  the  horrid  spectres.  She  dismissed 
her. 

"  I  know  nothing  of  your  brother,  my  good  girl,  and 
I  must  bid  you  good-night  I  " 

And  she  touched  the  bell.     Barbara  vanished  iu  the 


310  LUKE  DELMEGE 

darkness,  but  the  spectres  remained.  And,  as  the  stately 
lady  swept  around  the  ball-room,  that  most  detestable 
orchestra,  particularly  that  deejD,  solemn  'cello,  would 
keep  wailing.  Death  !  Judgment !  Death  !  Judgment ! 
It  was  a  new  waltz,  just  imported  from  the  halls  of 
eternity. 

"  No  use.  Father,  no  use  !  I  must  seek  Louis  alone 
now." 

"  I  shall  not  leave  you  here  on  the  London  streets," 
said  Father  Sheldon,  decisively. 

But  she  persisted.  The  cab  rolled  away,  and  left 
Barbara  standing  transfixed  on  the  pavement.  She 
looked  around  the  dreary  square  —  all  the  more  dreary 
because  so  brilliantly  illuminated.  All  the  splendour, 
and  comfort,  and  light,  and  beauty  chilled  her  by  the 
contrast.     Then  she  looked  up  to  the  stars,  and  — 

"  Whither  now,  O  my  God?" 

It  was  horrible.  It  was  a  night-walk  through  Hell. 
Black  figures  leaped  out  of  the  darkness,  stared  at  her, 
muttered  some  cabalistic  words,  and  vanished.  Rude 
men  whistled  into  her  face,  and  said  some  things  that 
would  be  dreadful,  but  they  were  happily  unintelligible. 
Once  and  again  a  policeman  flashed  a  lantern  in  her 
face,  and  muttered  something.  And  on,  on  she  stum- 
bled, for  she  was  now  growing  weak,  and  she  had  to 
lean  against  a  gas-lamp  for  help  from  time  to  time. 
Then  on  again,  on  through  the  darkness,  into  the  circle 
of  light  thrown  by  a  side-lamp,  and  into  the  darkness 
again.  A  few  times  she  stopped  to  accost  a  stranger, 
and  ask  did  he  see  Louis  ;  but  she  was  rudely  answered 
with  an  oath,  and  thenceforward  desisted  from  asking 
questions.  And  on,  on,  with  a  vague  hope  that  Louis 
was  somewhere  near,  and  that  she  would  find  him.  But 
nature  was  steadily  conquering,  and,  at  last,  she  had  to 
sit  on  the  curbstone  and  rest.  She  was  falling  into  a 
fitful  slumber  when  her  name  was  called  from  out  the 
night.  She  listened  and  looked.  She  heard  a  mighty 
river  fretting  its  way  into  the  darkness  beneath  her, 
and  on  the  lap  of  the  river  a  dark  form  was  tossed.     It 


THE   HALL   OF   EBLIS  311 

flung  out  its  hands  helplessly  into  the  turbid  waters, 
and  a  great  nimbus  of  white  hair  floated  back  upon  the 
wave.  Once  more  she  heard  her  name  called  from  out 
the  night,  and  she  woke,  chill  and  stiff.  She  stood  up 
and  stumbled  forward.  Her  hands  sought  help.  She 
clutched  the  iron  bars  that  ran  around  some  large  build- 
ing, and  groped  her  way  onward  from  bar  to  bar.  They 
led  her  to  a  gate.  It  was  open.  And  high  against  the 
star-lit  sky,  the  peaked  gables  of  a  church  cut  upwards. 
She  stumbled  against  a  door  and  pushed  it.  It  opened 
inwards,  and  she  was  in  the  church.  A  faint  smell  of 
incense  half  revived  her.  She  groped  along  from  bencli 
to  bench,  until  she  stood  beneath  tlie  red  lamp.  Tlien 
she  sat  down  and  rested.  Oh !  but  not  the  rest  that 
she  had  known  for  so  many  years  in  that  unspeakable 
Presence  ;  not  the  calm,  sweet  languor  that  steeped  her 
innocent  soul  in  such  a  bliss  of  peace  there  in  tlie  old 
churcli  in  the  far  city,  after  a  day  amongst  the  leprous 
and  the  poor.  No  ;  this  was  a  mighty  crisis  in  her  life  ; 
and  the  voice  was  pealing  from  out  the  night.  She  rose 
up  and  went  to  the  Lady  Altar,  and  prayed  for  lier 
brother's  soul  as  she  had  never  prayed  before.  And  as 
she  prayed,  a  light  struck  her  —  an  idea  so  terrible,  so 
api)alling,  that  she  shrank  from  the  dread  inspiration. 
She  was  called  upon  by  the  Unseen  to  make  a  sacrilice 
for  the  beloved  soul.  And  such  a  sacrifice,  great  God  ! 
It  was  too  dreadful.  She  shrank  from  it  in  terror. 
I>ut  the  voice  was  callinir  from  out  the  niirht.  A  soul, 
the  soul  of  the  beloved,  was  at  stake  I  Again  she 
prayed.  And  again  the  Unseen  spoke.  And  again  the 
poor  soul  protested.  Anything  else,  anything  else,  l)ut 
that!  I)Ut  the  voice  was  calling  importunately  from 
the  night.  There  was  no  time  for  hesitation.  She  rose 
u[)  and  dressetl  for  the  sacrifice ;  then  stood  before  the 
High  Altar  and  its  Tabernacle.  Once,  twice,  she  tried 
to  speak  her  vow,  and  failed.  Once,  twice,  weak  nature 
protested  against  a  divine  inspiration  and  decree.  Hut 
now  every  moment  was  precious.  And  on  a  sudden 
impulse  of  divine  self-surrender,  she  flung  out  her  arms, 


312  LUKE  DELMEGE 

like  the  limbs  of  a  cross,  and  uttered  the  mighty  words 
that  spoke  her  doom  and  the  redemption  of  her  brother. 
The  mighty  Thrones,  that  swung  round  and  round  the 
altar,  stopped  in  their  adoring  flight,  poised  themselves 
on  their  wings,  stared  at  each  other,  stared  at  the  silent 
Tabernacle,  and  looked  down  on  the  white,  tearless  face 
of  the  victim.  But  no  sound  broke  the  stillness  of  the 
sanctuary.  Yet  the  Heart  of  Christ  throbbed  quicker 
beneath  the  accidents  of  His  great  Sacrament — throbbed 
quicker  as  at  the  grave  of  Lazarus,  and  at  the  voice  of 
Magdalen,  and  surely  no  such  tremendous  sacrificial  vow 
had  ever  passed  human  lips  before. 

Then  a  new,  strange  strength  possessed  her.  She 
drew  on  her  gloves  calmly,  and  without  a  tremor  calmly 
picked  up  her  beads  and  umbrella,  calmly  genuflected, 
with  just  a  whisper  of  silent  protest  against  the  dread 
exorbitance  of  God,  and  passed  into  the  night  again. 
She  stumbled  against  some  person  in  the  darkness  and 
begged  pardon  humbly. 

"  Yerra,  ye  needn't,"  said  an  unmistakable  Hibernian 
voice,  "ye  didn't  hurt  me  much." 

"  Thanks  be  to  God  !  "  said  Barbara ;  "  surely  you 
are  an  Irishman." 

"•  I  ought  to  be,  for  me  father  and  mother  afore  me 
were,"  said  the  voice.  "  But,  begor,  I'm  beginning  to 
think  that  I'm  a  Tnixtum- gatherum  of  all  the  quare  peo- 
ple in  the  world  ;  and  that's  a  big  worrd." 

"  'Twas  God  and  the  Blessed  Virgin  sent  you,"  said 
Barbara,  realizing  that  this  was  the  agent  of  the  Most 
High  in  the  fulfilment  of  His  part. 

"  'Tis  many  a  long  daj'  since  I  hard  the  worrd,"  said 
the  policeman,  taking  off  his  helmet.  "  What  may  be 
yer  throuble  ?  " 

Simply  and  directly  Barbara  told  her  story,  there  in 
the  darkness  outside  the  church. 

It  was  so  wonderful,  so  incredible,  that  his  suspicions 
became  aroused.  He  had  very  large  ambitions  in  the  de- 
tective line,  and  it  would  never  do  to  be  caught  so  easily. 

"  Come  over  here  to  the  lamplight,"  he  said,  gently 


THE   HALL   OF   EBLIS  3L3 

but  firmly  holding  her  by  the  arm.  "  Now,  young 
'uman,  do  you  see  a  feather  bed  in  me  oi  ? "  he  said, 
lifting  up  his  eyelids  in  a  comical  way. 

But  something  in  the  gentle  face  smote  him  with 
sorrow,  and,  dropping  Barbara's  arm  hastily,  he  doffed 
his  helmet,  and  said  humbly  :  — 

"  I  beg  yer  pardon.  Miss,  a  thousand  times.  I  didn't 
know  ye  were  a  lady." 

''  Never  mind,"  said  Barbara.  "  But  come,  help  me. 
There  is  no  time  to  lose,     (iod  has  sent  you." 

He  drew  his  whistle,  and  at  the  shrill  summons  an- 
other constable  instantly  appeared.  He  whispered  a 
few  words  to  his  comrade,  and  then,  turning  to  Bar- 
bara, said :  — 

''  Come  !  " 

He  led  her  from  the  main  thoroughfare  down  a  side 
street  that  led  to  the  river,  for  a  cold  draught  of  wind 
swept  up  the  street,  and  cooled  gratefully  the  burning 
forehead  of  Barbara.  Then  another  turn,  and  they 
passed  into  a  police  office.  The  inspector  sat  mutely  at 
a  desk,  poring  over  a  pile  of  papers.  One  gas-jet, 
shaded  by  an  opal  globe,  flickered  over  his  head.  He 
looked  at  the  constable  and  said  notliing.  The  latter 
told  his  story  as  circumstantially  as  he  could,  and 
wound  up  in  a  whisper,  so  tliat  liarbara  could  not 
hear  :  — 

"  Begor,  'tis  like  hunting  for  a  needle  in  a  bundle  of 
sthraw." 

"  Broderick,  you're  a  fool,"  said  the  inspector  to  his 
fellow-countryman,  for  he,  too,  was  of  that  desperately 
lawless  race,  who  are  the  guardians  of  the  law  in  all 
the  cities  of  the  world.  "(Jo  into  the  kitchen  and  get 
tlie  lady  some  tea,  and  be  quick  about  it." 

When  B>arbara  came  out  from  the  day-room,  refreshed 
and  strengthened,  for  now  she  felt  sure  that  (it»d  was 
doing  His  part  faithfully,  althougli  He  had  demanded 
such  a  fearful  price  from  her,  the  inspector  was  stand- 
ing, gloved  and  hatted,  and  a  cab  was  at  the  door.  He 
lifted  Barbara  in  gently  and  followed. 


314  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  Where  are  we  going  ?"  asked  Barbara. 

"  To  the  third  of  the  three  places  your  brother 
liaunted,"  said  the  othcer.  "  Did  you  tell  that  fool  it 
was  an  opium-den  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Barbara,  wondering  that  she  had 
not  thought  of  the  place  before. 

"  And  Albemarle  Buildings,  Victoria  Street,  was 
your  brother's  address  ?  '' 

"•  Yes,  yes,"  said  Barbara,  eagerly. 

"  Then  he's  not  far  from  Albemarle  Buildings,"  said 
the  officer.  He  said  no  more.  Barbara  took  out  her 
beads,  and  prayed  softly  to  herself. 

They  sped  swiftly  to  the  Victoria-Road  Station, 
passed  down  some  narrow  streets,  and  stopj)ed.  The 
officer  alighted,  and  went  into  a  large  building,  from 
which  he  presently  emerged  with  another  officer. 
They  were  consulting  together.  Barbara  watched 
them  eagerly.  Then  there  was  a  hast}'  order  to  the 
driver,  and  the  cab  sj^ed  forward  again.  Then,  after 
one  or  two  sharp  turns,  they  stopped  before  a  long,  low 
shed. 

'"'•  Your  brother  is  probably  here,"  said  the  inspector ; 
'•  but  how  shall  I  know  him  ?  " 

"  I  shall  go  with  you,"  said  Barbara. 

"  No,  no  ;  this  is  no  place  for  a  lady,"  said  the  officer. 
"  Let  me  know  his  appearance,  and  some  distinguish- 
ing signs,  and  if  he  is  there  I  shall  certainly  find 
him." 

But  fearing  some  violence  from  one  cause  or  another 
to  her  beloved  one,  Barbara  insisted.  The  officer  offered 
his  arm  to  the  door,  a  small,  low,  shabby  door,  that 
seemed  to  open  nowhere.  He  pushed  it,  and  it  yielded. 
They  groped  through  the  darkness  to  a  heavy  curtain, 
that  screened  the  light,  and  pushed  it  aside.  They  were 
in  the  Hall  of  Eblis.  Readers  of  Beckford's  wonder- 
ful vision  will  remember  the  ghastly  sight  that  met  the 
eyes  of  Vathek  and  Nouronihar,  when  their  curiosity 
was  gratified,  and  they  entered  the  fortress  of  Aherman 
and  the  halls  of   Argenk.     Even  such  was  the  dread 


THE   HALL   OF   EBLIS  315 

spectacle  that  smote  on  the  senses  of  Barbara  and  the 
officer  in  this  abode  of  the  livinc^-dead.  A  heavy  cloud,  , 
charged  with  the  dread  vapours  of  opium,  hung  thick 
and  opaque  on  the  ceiling;  and  its  folds,  too  lieavy  for 
the  atmosphere,  curled  down  and  curtained  the  floor. 
Bleared  lamps  shone  through  it,  and  lighted  its  thick 
volumes,  and  scarcely  threw  a  dim  sliadow  on  the  floor, 
where,  piled  against  the  walls,  and  stretched  in  every 
hateful  and  abominable  posture  on  filthy  mattresses, 
lay  the  stupefied  victims  of  the  deadly  drug.  Some 
lay  like  dead  logs  ;  some  had  sense  enough  left  to  lift 
their  weary  eyes  and  stare,  like  senseless  images,  on 
the  intruders.  Some  were  yet  in  the  beginning  of  the 
dread  trance  and  were  smoking  leisurely.  It  was  a 
mass,  a  squirming  yet  senseless  mass  of  degraded  hu- 
manity, and  Barbara  clung  close  to  the  officer,  as  they 
passed  down  the  hall,  sometimes  stepping  over  a  pros- 
trate form,  and  the  eyes  of  the  devoted  girl  almost 
starting  in  fear  and  curiosity  and  the  dread  hope  that 
here  at  last  her  quest  was  ended. 

They  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  hall  and  had  turned 
back  to  examine  the  dreamers  on  the  other  side,  when 
a  figure,  almost  buried  under  the  superincumbent  forms 
of  others,  turned  lazily  and  helplessly  and  muttered 
something.  Bai-bara  stopped,  clutched  the  arm  of  the 
officer,  and  pointed.  The  inspector  pulled  aside  one 
or  two  helpless  figures  ;  and  there,  curled  up  in  a  state 
of  abject  impotence,  was  Louis  Wilson.  Barbara  was 
on  her  knees  in  a  moment  beside  her  brother,  fondling 
him,  caressing  him,  with  one  dread  fear  and  hope  — 
would  he  live  '! 

"  This  is  he,"  she  said.  "  Now  for  the  last  mercy. 
How  shall  we  get  him  hence  ?  " 

They  raised  the  senseless  form  between  them,  and, 
by  a  mighty  struggle,  drew  it  down  the  floor  and  to 
the  curtain.      Here  a  figure  stopped  them. 

"  Hallo,  I  say,  what's  this  ?  " 

But  the  officer  flung  the  fellow  aside  :  then  followed 
him,  and,  after  a  few  words,  the  fellow  came  over  and 


316  LUKE  DELMEGE 

relieved    Barbara  of   her  burden.     They  huddled   the 
senseless  figure  into  the  cab,  and  sped  homewards. 

In  the  gray  dawn  of  the  morning,  two  anxious  figures 
stood  by  Louis  Wilson's  bed,  watching,  watching,  for  a 
sign  of  returning  consciousness.  The  doctor  had  ad- 
ministered some  powerful  restorative,  which,  if  it  took 
effect,  would  bring  back  the  vacant  mind  once  more  to 
partial  self-knowledge.  But  the  heart  was  hopelessly 
diseased,  and  there  was  no  chance  of  recovery.  Bar- 
bara was  quite  easy  in  her  mind.  She  knew  that  the 
Eternal  should  keep  His  contract.  Not  so  Father 
Sheldon.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  tremendous  inter- 
change that  had  taken  place  that  night  between  tlie 
young  girl  and  lier  God.  He  only  saw  with  human 
eyes,  and  judged  by  human  reason.  But  he  was  a 
priest,  and  this  was  a  soul  in  peril.  And  so  he  knelt 
and  prayed,  sat  and  walked,  always  watching,  watch- 
ing, for  the  one  faint  ray  of  light  that  would  herald  the 
return  of  reason  in  that  helpless  form.  He  had  done 
all  that  the  Church  allowed  to  be  done  under  such 
awful  circumstances  ;  but,  partly  for  the  sake  of  that 
immortal  soul,  partly  for  the  consolation  it  would  im- 
part to  this  devoted  girl,  he  prayed  and  wished  that, 
at  least,  one  act  of  sorrow  or  charity  might  be  breathed 
by  the  conscious  intelligence  before  it  was  summoned 
to  final  judgment.  Tlie  dawn  grew  to  day  ;  sounds  of 
renewed  traffic,  suspended  only  for  a  couple  of  hours, 
began  to  echo  in  the  streets  again  ;  now  and  again  a 
street-call  was  heard,  as  boys  rushed  here  and  there 
with  morning  merchandise  ;  a  company  of  soldiers 
swept  by  to  catch  a  morning  train.  Barbara  had  left 
the  room  for  a  moment,  when  the  patient  woke  —  woke, 
feebly  and  faintly,  and  stared  at  the  window  and  at  the 
face  bending  over  him. 

"  Barbara  !  "  he  moaned  in  pain. 

"  Barbara  is  here,"  said  Father  Sheldon,  "  and  will  be 
delighted  to  see  you  so  revived." 

"  Why  are  you  here  ?  "  Louis  asked. 

"  Because  you  are  in  danger,  and  I  am  a  priest." 


THE   HALL   OF   EBLIS  317 

"  Oh  !  I  remember.  I  bad  a  dream.  I  tbougbt  I 
was  away  in  Switzerland  or  somewbere  ;  and  there  was 
a  stage,  and  illuminations,  and  a  tragedy.  And  we 
came  home,  and  you  were  so  kind." 

"  Tell  me,  Dr.  Wilson,"  said  Father  Sheldon,  "  have 
you  any  objection  to  make  your  peace  with  God  and  to 
receive  the  Sacraments  of  the  Church  ?  " 

"  Not  the  slightest.  But  Barbara  must  be  here.  I 
should  like  to  make  my  confession  to  Barbara.  I  could 
tell  her  everything." 

That  wasn't  to  be,  however.  He  did  the  next  best 
thinsf.  He  confessed  and  was  absolved.  And  when 
Barbara  returned,  and  saw  the  candles  lighting,  and  the 
purple  stole  around  the  priest's  neck,  and  the  light  of 
reason  dawning  in  eyes  that  had,  beretofore,  stared  into 
abysses  of  ghastly  phantoms,  she  flung  herself  on  her 
knees  in  mute  thanksgiving  to  God  for  the  mighty 
grace.  And  then  her  woman's  heart  sank  sadly  as  she 
thought  :  Yes,  clearly  He  demands  the  sacrifice,  as  He 
has  clearly  wrought  His  miracle  of  love.  Yea,  Lord, 
be  it  so  !  Who  am  I  to  contravene  the  purpose  of  the 
Most  High  ?  " 

And  so  the  Rev.  Luke  Delmege  was  grievously  dis- 
appointed on  arriving,  with  all  liis  heavy  luggage  of 
books,  etc.,  at  Euston  Station,  and  quite  punctui^.ll}',  to 
meet  the  8.30  down  mail,  when  lie  found  himself  alone. 
He  paced  the  platform  impatiently  and  looked  eagerly 
at  every  one  that  alighted  from  cab  or  hansom.  The 
last  bell  rang.  He  had  to  take  his  place  alone.  For, 
alas !  one  of  his  expected  fellow-travellers  was  sleeping 
peacefully  in  Highgate  Cemetery,  and  the  other  he  was 
to  meet  only  after  many  years. 

"There's  no  use,"  said  Luke,  "in  trying  to  teach  our 
countrymen  anything.  Even  the  best  fail  hopelessly 
to  appreciate  the  necessity  of  punctuality." 


BOOK  lY 


CHAPTER   XXV 
ALTRUISM 

Dr.  Wilson  was  in  his  study  the  following  morning 
when  a  visitor  was  announced. 

"  A  priest  ?  " 

Dr.  Wilson  shrugged  his  shoulders.    "  Show  him  up." 

When  Luke  entered  the  room  in  a  calm,  independent 
way,  the  foUowing  interrogatories  were  jerked  at  him. 
He  was  not  asked  to  take  a  seat. 
.    "  Name,  please  ?  " 

Luke  gave  it  slowly  and  distinctly. 

"  Parish  priest,  or  curate  ?  " 

"  Neither  " 

"  Secular,  or  regular  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  come  to  consult  you  professionally,"  said 
Luke.  "I  have  just  come  from  Enghmd.  If  I  needed 
your  services,  I  would  pay  for  them,  and  decline  to  be 
catechised." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  Doctor,  shuftling 
around.  "  1  really  didn't  mean  —  won't  you  please  take 
a  seat  ?  " 

"  I  had  some  slight  knowledge  of  Mr.  Wilson  and 
his  sister  in  England,"  said  Luke.  "  We  travelled  from 
vSwitzerland  together;  and  we  had  arranged  to  leave 
Euston  yesterday  together.  They  failed  to  keep  the 
a})pointment,  and  I  just  called  to  express  a  hope  that 
nothing  of  serious  hnportance  could  have  prevented 
them.'' 

"  Then  you  know  nothing  further  ?  "  said  the  doctor, 
eyeing  Luke  closely. 

"  Absolutely  nothing,"  said  Luke. 
Y  321 


1 


322  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  I  now  remember  that  your  name  was  frequently 
mentioned  in  Barbara's  letters,  especially  the  latest. 
Then,  you  do  not  know  that  my  son  is  dead  ?  " 

Luke  was  horrified,  though  he  might  have  expected  it. 

"  Yes,"  continued  the  Doctor,  "he  is  dead.  And  his 
sister  has  written  to  say  that  she  too  is  dead  to  us  and 
the  world  —  she  lias  entered  some  convent." 

"  You  surprise  me  very  much,"  said  Luke.  "  I  under- 
stood that  they  were  to  return  and  remain  with  their 
uncle.  Canon  Murray.  And  I  presumed  that,  at  least. 
Miss  Wilson  would  return  —  " 

"  Of  course,  sir.  And,  in  the  ordinary  and  proper 
course  of  things  she  should  have  returned.  And  I  tell 
you,  sir,  it  is  this  unnatural  and  improper  severance  of 
family  ties  that  is  prejudicing  so  many  peoj^le  against 
the  Church." 

"  I  am  not  the  custodian  of  Miss  Wilson's  conscience," 
said  Luke.  "  I  presume  she  has  excellent  reasons  for  her 
course  of  conduct.  At  least,  she  struck  me  as  one  of  the 
most  gentle  and  self-sacrificing  beings  I  ever  saw." 

"  Quite  so,  sir.  There's  the  sting  of  it.  If  she  were 
worthless,  or  likely  to  be  troublesome,  your  convents 
would  have  nothing  to  say  to  her." 

"  I  cannot  enter  into  that  question,"  said  Luke. 
"  There  are  many  circumstances  that  tend  to  guide 
young  people  in  the  direction  of  the  religious  life. 
But,  at  what  convent  or  in  what  Order  has  Miss  Wil- 
son entered  ?  " 

"  That  I  don't  know.  They  won't  allow  her  to  tell 
even  her  father.  She  simply  writes  to  say,  she  is  dead 
to  the  world,  and  desires  to  be  forgotten.     That  is  all." 

"  That  means  she  has  joined  the  Poor  Clares,  or  the 
Carmelites.  They  are  austere  orders,  and  observe  strict 
seclusion  from  the  world." 

"  I  don't  know.  I  dare  sa}''  they  have  told  her  to 
write  thus.  They  dreaded  my  parental  authority,  lest 
I  should  remove  her.  And,  by  heavens  ! "  cried  the 
Doctor,  smiting  the  desk  before  him,  "  I  will  I  " 

Then  the  stronsr  man  broke  down. 


ALTRUISM  323 

"  I  didn't  care  what  might  happen  to  that  young  — 
well,  he's  dead  —  but  my  heart  was  in  that  girl.  And 
to  think  she  should  have  turned  her  back  upon  me  in 
my  old  age  —  " 

"  It  is  the  usual  lot  of  families  to  be  separated,"  said 
Luke,  kindly.  ''  Miss  Wilson  might  have  married,  and 
gone  to  India  ;   and  you  might  never  see  her  again." 

"  True  !  true  !  let  us  dismiss  the  subject.  Will  you 
see  Lady  Wilson  ?  She  will  be  anxi(jus  to  hear  all 
about  that  last  journey  from  Switzerland." 

Luke  remained  a  long  time  in  Lady  Wilson's  draw- 
ing-room going  over  detail  after  detail  to  soothe  the 
motlier's  feelings.  But,  ever  and  again,  when  he  passed 
into  a  euhjgium  of  the  sister's  virtues,  the  impatient 
mother  would  bring  him  back  from  the  digression. 
Louis  !  Louis  !  it  was  of  him  she  wanted  to  hear. 

The  delightful  altruism  of  the  Irish  character  broke 
suddenl}-  upon  him  at  luncheon  in  the  coffee-room  of 
the  Montrouge  Hotel.  As  he  washed  his  hands  in  an 
adjoining  room  he  was  accosted  by  a  great,  tall,  bushy- 
whiskered  man,  who,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  was  making 
his  ablutions  rather  demonstratively. 

"  Nice  day,  sir?" 

"  Yes.     Rather  cold  for  October." 

"  Oh  !  I  perceive  you're  from  across  the  Channel.  I 
have  the  greatest  esteem  for  the  English  charaeter,  sir ! 
I  always  say  we  have  a  great  deal  to  learn  from  our 
neighbours.  Coming  to  see  Ireland,  sir?  You'll  be 
delighted  and  disappointed.  Going  south  to  Killarney, 
of  course  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  am  oroingf  south,"  said  Luke,  on  wlioni  the 
familiarity  grated.      "  I  am  an  Irish  [)riest." 

"  Oh  !  I  beg  your  reverence's  pardon,"  said  the  other, 
dropping  at  once  into  the  familiar  bi'ogue.  '*  Begor, 
now,  we  don't  know  our  priests  from  the  parsons.  They 
dress  all  alike." 

"  An  Irishman  always  distinguishes,"  said  Luke. 

■^  To  be  sure  !  to  be  sure  !     Now,  whenever  I'm   in 


324  LUKE  DELMEGE 

England,  I  always  go  to  Sandringham.  I  have  a  stand- 
ing invitation  from  the  Prince  of  Wales  to  stay  with 
him  whenever  I'm  in  England.  '  Wire  me,  Fitzgerald,' 
he  said,  '  and  I  shall  have  my  carriage  waiting  for  you. 
No  ceremony.  One  good  turn  deserves  another.'  Are 
you  lunching  here,  your  reverence  ?  As  good  as  you 
can  get  in  the  city.  But  ask  for  the  under  cut  of  the 
sirloin.     Say  Fitzgerald  recommended  it." 

Luke  had  vanished.  He  was  afraid  the  standing  in- 
vitation might  be  expected  from  himself. 

"  What  can  I  have  for  luncheon  ?  "  he  asked  the  waiter. 

The  waiter  jerked  the  napkin  over  his  left  shoulder, 
placed  his  two  hands  on  the  table,  and  asked  confiden- 
tially :  — 

"  Well,  now,  and  what  would  yer  reverence  like  ?  I 
suppose  ye're  thravelling  for  the  good  of  yer  health, 
and  ye  want  somethin'  good  ?  " 

"  Quite  so.  Then  let  me  have  a  cut  of  roast  beef  — 
the  under  cut,  you  know  ! " 

"  Begor,  we're  just  out  o'  that.  There  was  a  party 
of  gintlemin  come  in  a  few  minits  ago  ;  and  the  divil  a 
bit  but  the  bone  they  left." 

"  Well,  let  me  see.  Have  you  roast  mutton,  or 
a  fowl  ?  " 

"  Bedad,  we  had  yesterday.  But  this  is  the  day  for 
the  roast  beef." 

"  I  see.  Well,  look  here,  Fm  in  a  hurry  to  catch  a 
train.     Let  me  have  a  chop." 

"  The  very  thing.  While  ye'd  be  sayin'  thrapsticks. 
Wan  or  two  ?  " 

"Two.     And  some  vegetables." 

"  And  what  will  ye  dhrink  ?  " 

"  Water  !  " 

The  waiter  straightened  himself,  rubbed  his  chin, 
and  stared  at  Luke  meditatively.  Then  he  went  to  the 
kitchen. 

"  Can  I  have  some  second  course  ?  "  said  Luke. 

"To  be  sure,  yer  reverence.     Anything  ye  like." 

"  Any  stewed  fruit  ?  ' 


ALTRUISM  325 

"Any  amount  of  it,  yer  reverence.  But  won't  ye 
take  anything  to  dhrink  ?  It's  a  cowlcl  day,  and  ye 
have  a  long  journey  afore  ye  ?  " 

"  I'll  have  a  tiny  cup  of  coffee  after  dinner.  Is  this 
the  fruit  ?  " 

"'Tis,  yer  reverence.     Just  tossed  out  of  the  tin." 

"  What  are  they  ?  " 

"  Well,  begor,  yer  reverence,  I'm  not  quite  sure 
meself.     I'll  ask  the  cook." 

"  Oh,  never  mind.     It's  all  right." 

But  the  good  waiter  insisted,  and  came  back  in  a 
few  minutes  with  a  mighty  pile  of  rice  pudding. 

"  There,  yer  reverence,"  he  cried  ;  "  take  that.  Sure 
I  kem  round  the  cook  wid  a  bit  of  blarney.  That's 
good  for  ye.     Let  them  things  alone." 

And  he  removed  the  stewed  fruit  contemptuously. 
Luke  handed  him  a  sovereign.  He  almost  fainted. 
When  he  had  recovered,  he  went  over  to  the  window, 
Luke  calmly  watching  him,  and  held  the  sovereign  up 
to  the  light.  Then  he  glanced  at  Luke  suspiciously. 
A  second  time  examined  the  coin,  and  then  rang  it  on 
the  table.  Then  he  bit  it,  and  rang  it  again.  Finally 
he  vanished  into  the  kitchen. 

"  Vou  seemed  to  have  doubts  about  that  sovereign  ?  " 
said  Luke,  when  he  emerged  witli  the  change. 

'•'■  Is  it  me,  yer  reverence  ?  Divil  a  doubt.  Doubt  a 
priest,  indeed  !  No,  yer  reverence,  I'm  a  poor  man, 
but  I  knows  me  relisfion  !  " 

"  Then  whv  did  you  ring  it,  and  bite  it,  and  examine 
it  ?  " 

"Is  it  me,  yer  reverence?  Oh  no,  God  forbid  that 
I  should  forget  meself  in  the  presence  of  a  priest." 

"  But  I  saw  you  do  it,"  said  Luke,  who  was  fully  de- 
termined to  let  no  such  insincerity  pass  unreproved. 

''  Ah  I  sure  tliat's  a  way  I  have,"  said  the  waiter. 
"They  thry  to  break  me  av  it,  but  they  can't.  I  got 
it  from  me  poor  father,  —  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on 
his  sowl." 

"  Amen  !     Go,  get  me  a  cab." 


326  LUKE  DELMEGE 

Luke  was  hardly  seated  in  a  second-class  carriage, 
when  a  commercial  traveller  entered,  fussed  about, 
arranged  vast  piles  of  luggage  everywhere,  sat  down, 
coiled  a  rug  around  him,  and  took  out  a  newspaper. 
In  a  few  minutes  he  was  staring  over  the  edge  of  the 
paper  at  Luke.  The  latter  was  busy  with  his  own 
thoughts  —  regrets  after  Aylesburgh,  memories  of  little 
kindnesses  received,  the  regretful  partings,  the  little 
farewell  presents.  He  lifted  up  the  soft  rug.  It  was 
a  present  from  the  school  children.  Then  he  looked 
out  on  the  sombre  landscape,  and  thought  of  his  future. 
Well  !  At  least  the  new  life  would  have  the  interest  of 
novelty.  And,  then,  he  was  not  welcome  in  English 
clerical  circles. 

"  A  fine  evening,  sir.     Going  south  ?  " 

The  poor  fellow  couldn't  help  it.  He  had  tried  to 
attract  Luke's  attention  in  sundry  little  ways,  but  in 
vain.  He  had  to  make  a  bold  attempt.  Nothing  could 
have  annoyed  Luke  Delmege  so  surely.  He  wanted 
time  for  thought  about  a  hundred  things  ;  he  had  been 
used  to  silence.  The  brusquerie  of  that  Dublin  docto) 
had  irritated  him  ;  so,  too,  had  the  waiter's  prevarica- 
tion. He  had  met  nothing  like  it  in  England,  where 
everything  was  smooth,  polished,  mechanical ;  and  there 
was  no  room  for  sudden  and  abrupt  departures  from 
recognized  rules. 

He  answered  coldly.  The  traveller  was  offended, 
drew  his  rug  more  tightly  around  him,  and  anathema- 
tized priests  iu  general. 

But,  just  then,  that  beautiful  side  of  Irish  altruism,, 
which  is  not  vanity  and  curiosity,  was  revealed.  A 
lady  placed  two  children  in  the  carriage  ;  and  left  them,. 
on  their  long  journey  to  the  farthest  extremes  of  Kerry, 
to  the  care  of  the  guard  and  the  benevolence  of  the 
public.  The  little  girl,  a  child  of  five  years,  hugged 
her  doll,  and  beamed  on  her  fellow-passengers.  Her 
brother  curled  himself  up  on  the  cushions,  and  fell 
asleep. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say,"  said  Luke  to  the  guards 


I 


i 


ALTRUISM  327 

"  that  these  children's  mother  has  left  them  thus  unpro- 
tected for  such  a  journey  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  yes,  your  reverence.  They're  as  safe  as  in 
their  cradles.  They're  Prodestans,"  he  whispered,  as 
a  caution. 

And  Luke  thouQ-ht  of  "the  ladv  with  the  brifjht  orold 
ring  on  the  wand  she  bore,"  and  her  dazzling  beauty, 
lighted  safely  around  the  island  of  purit}"  and  chivalry. 

And  it  was  delightful — the  little  interludes  at  the 
stations  where  the  train  stopped  for  a  moment  on  its 
rapid  course  southwards.  At  every  stop  the  guard 
thrust  in  his  peaked  cap  and  bearded  face  to  look  after 
his  pretty  charge. 

"  Well,  an'  how're  ye  gettin'  on  ?  " 

"Very  well,  thank  you,"' the  child  would  lisp  with 
such  a  pretty  accent,  and  such  a  winning  smile. 

"  An',  how'se  the  doll  ?  " 

"Very  well,  thank  you." 

"  What's  tliat  her  name  is?     I'm  always  forgettin'." 

"  Bessie  Louisa.  This  is  my  youngest  doll,  you 
know." 

"  Of  course,  of  course  !     And  ye're  all  right  ?  " 

"All  right,  thank  you." 

"Good  !     Tay  at  the  Lim'rick  Junction.' 

Twenty  minutes  later,  the  same  colloquy  would  take 
place. 

"  Well,  and  how're  ye  gettin'  on?" 

"Very  well,  thank  you." 

"And  how'se  the  doll?" 

"Very  well,  thank  you." 

"  .Mary  Jane,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"No,  n(t  I   this  is  Bessie  Louisa." 

"Of  course — liessie  Louisa  I  Where  are  me  brains 
goin'  to?     And  did  she  sleep?" 

"  Yes.     She  slept  the  whole  wav." 

"  Good.     An'  ye're  all  right  ?  "" 

"All  right,  thank  you." 

"  Good  again.  We'll  have  tay  at  the  Lim'rick  Junc- 
tion." 


328  LUKE  DELMEGE 

But  the  benevolence  was  not  limited  to  the  guard. 
Oh  !  no.  Every  one  in  the  carriage,  now  well  filled, 
became  the  self-constituted  guardian  of  the  children. 
That  boy  must  have  been  sick  for  a  fortnight,  after  his 
return  home,  so  well  filled  he  was  with  cake  and  fruit. 
Even  Luke  thawed  out  from  his  frozen  English  habits, 
and  sat  near  the  little  girl.  She  told  him  wonderful 
things  about  that  little  doll,  showed  him  all  her  trous- 
seau, including  a  lace  skirt,  which  she  said  papa  wore 
in  his  baby-days  ;  told  him  the  names  of  flowers  by  the 
wayside,  and  gave  strange  names  to  the  ponies  that 
scampered  away  from  the  onrushing  train.  He  was 
half  jealous  when  the  hirsute  guard  appeared,  and  the 
child  smiled  at  her  friend.     And  then  da  capo  :  — 

"  An'  how're  ye  gettin'  on  ?  " 

"Very  well,  thank  you." 

"  And  how'se  the  doll  ?  " 

"  Very  well,  thank  you." 

"  Mary  Anne  Kate,  isn't  it  ?  " 

'■'■  No,  no,  no,  no  !     Bessie  Louisa." 

"  Of  course,  of  course  !     An'  ye're  all  right  ?  " 

"All  right,  thank  you." 

"  Good  !     We  ordhered  tay  at  the  Junction." 

That  "tay  at  the  Junction,"  was  a  wonderful  cere- 
mony. Every  one  —  guard,  porters,  passengers  —  was 
interested.  And  when  the  young  waiter,  in  tight  brown 
uniform,  and  with  a  ribbon  of  bright  brass  buttons  run- 
ning from  collar  to  boot,  came  bearing  aloft  the  tray  and 
its  steaming  contents,  there  was  almost  a  cheer.  There 
never  was  such  a  number  of  improvised,  amateur,  and 
volunteer  wait-ers  in  the  chambers  of  the  great.  A  land- 
lord, who  had  a  piece  of  flint  in  the  place  of  a  heart,  a 
military  swashbuckler  who  had  stabbed  and  sabred  a 
hundred  Paythans  in  the  Himalayas  —  even  an  attorney, 
volunteered  their  services.  Luke  was  selected  by  the 
young  empress  ;  but  he  shared  the  honours  nobly,  by 
allowing  the  landlord  to  butter  the  bread  and  the  attor- 
ney to  pour  out  the  tea.  He  gave  Bessie  Louisa  to  the 
bold  sahreur.     And  on  went  the  train  merrily,  the  child 


ALTRUISM  329 

eating,  laughing,  smiling  at  these  worshippers  of  her 
unconscious  attractions,  until  they  came  to  the  next 
junction,  wliere  she  dismissed  them  with  royal  bount}'. 

Luke  had  to  go  further.  His  young  charge  almost 
crowed  with  delight  when  he  told  her.  And  then,  she 
fell  fast  asleep.  Half  dreaming,  half  conscious,  always 
waking  up  to  smile,  she  lay  wrapped  in  the  warm  rug 
that  Luke  had  drawn  around  her,  pillowing  lier  head 
on  his  arm,  and  watching  in  the  growing  twilight  the 
shadows  deepening  on  the  smiling  face.  Once  or  twice 
he  tried  to  read  his  Office  ;  but  in  vain.     He  laid  it  aside. 

"  God  won't  blame  me,"  he  said.  "  It  is  the  shadow 
of  His  mighty  wings  that  envelops  us ;  and  He  hath 
given  His  angels  charge  over  us  to  keep  us  in  all  our 
ways." 

And  Luke,  too,  fell  asleep,  the  child  resting  on  his 
arm.  He  reached  home  at  night,  and  had  an  effusive 
welcome.  The  following  day  he  called  on  the  Canon. 
The  good  old  man  looked  stooped  and  aged. 

"Have  you  any  news  —  of  —  ha  —  Barbara,  Miss 
Wilson?  "  he  said. 

"  None,"  said  Luke,  "  but  what  lier  father  told  me  — 
that  she  had  entered  some  convent." 

"  Quite  so.  I  am  quite  sure  that  she  will  —  ha  — 
rise  to  something  responsible  and  —  ha  —  respectable." 

"  I  hope  j\Iiss  Wilson  wrote  to  you,  sir,  explaining 
her  intentions,"  said  Luke. 

"  Ahem  !  yes.  But  she  has  not  entered  into  details. 
I  dare  say  she  Avill  write  again." 

The  Canon,  too,  was  nettled.  He  could  see  no  cause 
for  such  great  secrecy  and  such  haste. 

"I  understand  that  —  ha  —  in  Knglaud  a  young  lady, 
well  connected  and  talented,  might  rise  to  —  a — very 
dignilicd  position?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed.  Amongst  the  Carmelites  at  the  old 
convent  at  Lanherne,  the  Reverend  Mother  has  the 
dignity  of  a  mitred  Abbess.  At  least,"  said  Luke, 
hastily  correcting  himself,  "  she  has  the  privilege  of  a 
crosier,  which  ought  to  be  equivalent  to  a  mitre." 


330  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  Then,  believe  me,  sir,"  said  the  Canon,  "  the  day 
Barbara's  virtues  and  talents  are  recognized,  the  —  ah 
—  community  will  raise  her  to  the  most  dignified  and 
respectable  position  in  their  power." 

There  was  a  few  moments'  silence. 

"And  you  have  returned  to  —  ah  —  resume  work  in 
your  own  diocese  ?  "  said  the  Canon. 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  was  hoping,  indeed,  to  be  able  to  give 
my  services  to  the  cause  of  religion  in  England;  but 
it  was  decided  otherwise.  I  am  just  going  to  see  the 
Bishop  about  my  future  arrangements." 

''  Quite  so.  You  will  kindly  take  a  letter  from  me 
to  his  Lordship.  I  would  wish  very  much  that  I  could 
detain  you  —  ah  —  here  ;  but  you  know  it  might  estab- 
lish a  dangerous  precedent  —  " 

"  I'm  sure  I'm  extremely  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  said 
Luke.  "  But  I  hope  that  I  shall  be  placed,  sooner  or 
later,  somewhere  near,  that  I  might  be  able  to  see  you 
sometimes." 

The  Bishop  was  very  kind,  and  would  have  wished 
to  place  Luke  in  some  leading  position ;  but  all  things 
in  Ireland,  especially  ecclesiastical,  are  governed  by  iron 
rules,  the  hardest  and  most  inexorable  of  which  is  cus- 
tom.    Luke  got  his  appointment  to  a  country  mission. 

"  You  will  find  the  parish  priest  somewhat  quaint,'' 
his  Lordship  said,  "  but  a  saint." 

Luke  called  on  Margery,  now  Sister  Eulalie.  She 
looked  to  her  brother's  eyes  lovelier  than  ever  in  that 
most  beautiful  habit,  specially  designed  by  our  Lord  for 
his  favourite  Order  of  the  Good  Shepherd.  Margery 
was  enthusiastic  about  her  dear  brother. 

"  But,  Luke,  you're  horribly  changed.  Where  did  you 
get  that  grand  accent  ?  And  you  are  so  stiff  and  solemn 
and  grave,  I'm  half  afraid  of  you." 

Yes.  Luke  was  very  solemn  and  grave,  partly  from 
natural  impulse,  partly  from  his  English  training.  Mar- 
gery said  she  didn't  like  it.  But  she  did,  deep  down  in 
her  heart.  And  when  one  of  the  Sisters  whispered  to 
her,    "  You    ought    to  be   proud   of   your   brother "  — 


ALTRUISM  331 

Margery  was  proud,  very  proud.  And  a  little  indig- 
nant, too.  What  did  the  Bisliop  mean  by  sending  lier 
glorious  brother  to  a  wretched  country  parish,  all 
moor  and  mountain;  whilst  here,  in  the  city,  so  much 
energy  and  eloquence  and  personal  magnetism  were 
wanting? 

"  I  don't  know  what's  come  over  the  Bishop."  she 
thought.     "And  he  always  spoke  so  highly  of  Luke." 

"  Luke  dear,"  she  said,  "  you  mustn't  mind.  You  are 
sent  there  just  for  a  time  to  save  appearances,  and  to 
prevent  jealousy.  Before  twelve  months,  you'll  be  here 
at  the  Cathedral.      Now,  say  you  don't  mind,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  not  at  all,"  said  Luke,  airily.  "  I  have  had  no 
reason  to  expect  anything  better.  I  made  my  bed,  and 
I  must  lie  on  it." 

"  Now,  that's  a  note  of  discontent,"  said  Margery,  with 
her  quick  intuition ;  "  never  mind  !  I  suppose  this  old 
parish  priest  is  like  dear  old  Father  Meade  !  " 

"Oh  !  by  the  way,  has  that  visionary  called?"  said 
Luke. 

"  Yes,"  said  Margery.  "  He  called.  We  were  full. 
But  he  would  take  no  denial.  '  (ilod  sent  them,'  he 
said,  '  and  take  care  you  are  not  found  fighting  against 
God.'" 

"  It  was  the  wildest  expedition  a  priest  ever  entered 
on,"  said  Luke.  "  Such  utter  contempt  for  prudence, 
and  even  for  the  proprieties,  was  never  seen  before." 

'"Those  are  the  men  that  move  mountains,"  said  Mar- 
gery.    And  Luke  didn't  like  it. 

'  Then  Margery-  drew  out  of  lier  little  treasury  sundry 
little  gifts  —  a  pyx-case,  a  little  bundle  of  corporals  and 
purificators,  an  oil-stock  cover,  a  number  of  Agnus  Deis 
for  the  poor.  etc.  ;  and  Luke  took  them  with  lialf  a  sigh, 
thinking  of  the  new  life  before  him  ;  then  he  kissed  his 
little  sister,  and  departed  for  his  mission. 

"  We  cannot  stand  you  now,  Eulalie,"  said  one  of  the 
Sisters.  "  A  brother  like  that  would  turn  any  one's 
liead." 

But  Sister  Eulalie  felt  a  little  sinking  of  the  heart 


332  LUKE  DELMEGE 

somehow.    There  was  something  wanting  in  that  grand, 
stately  character, 

"•  I  wonder  will  the  poor  like  him,"  she  said. 

Luke  passed  an  uneasy  night.  Whether  that  quilt 
was  too  heavy,  so  very  unlike  the  soft  down  quilt  at 
Aylesburgh,  or  this  feather  bed  was  too  soft,  or  these 
blankets  were  too  coarse  or  hard,  or  whether  it  was  that 
heavy  odour  around  the  room,  as  if  the  windows  had  not 
been  raised  for  a  long  time,  —  at  any  rate,  he  was  rest- 
less and  troubled.  And  when  in  the  gray  dawn  of  the 
October  morning,  he  heard  a  sound  of  moaning  in  the 
next  room,  occupied  by  his  pastor,  he  rose  up,  and  fear- 
ing that  the  old  man  was  ill,  he  knocked  gently  at  his 
door.  In  answer  to  "  Come  in  !  "  he  entered.  The  old 
man,  fully  dressed,  was  leaning  over  a  chair,  on  which 
was  a  large  black  crucifix,  and  there  he  was  pouring  out 
his  soul  to  God  with  sighs  and  tears. 

"  I  was  afraid,  sir,"  stammered  Luke,  "  that  you  had 
been  taken  ill  —  " 

"  Go  back  to  bed,  boy,  and  stay  there  till  I  call  you,' 
said  the  old  man. 

Luke  returned,  wondering,  and  looked  at  his  watch. 
It  was  just  five  o'clock.  Luke  shivered.  But  when, 
after  breakfast,  he  strolled  out  to  see  the  surroundings 
of  his  future  life,  he  groaned  aloud  :  — 

"  Good  heavens  !  It  is  Siberia,  and  I  am  an  exile 
and  a  prisoner." 

The  morning  was  fine,  and  a  gray  mist  hung  down 
over  field  and  valley,  and  wet  the  withering  leaves,  and 
made  the  red  haws,  that  splashed  the  whole  landscape, 
as  if  with  blood,  glisten  and  shine.  But  the  mist  could 
not  conceal  the  gray,  lonely  fields,  the  cocks  of  hay,  half 
rotten,  left  out  by  some  careless  farmer  to  rain  and 
frost  ;  the  brown,  black  mountains,  seamed  and  torn  in 
yellow  stripes  by  the  everlasting  torrents.  Here  and 
there,  across  the  desolation,  were  green  nests,  where 
some  comfortable  farmer  resided  ;  and  here  alone  a  few 
scraggy  trees  broke  the  monotony  of  the  landscape. 


ALTRUISM  333 

"It's  aland  of  death  and  ruin,"  said  Luke.  He  re- 
turned.    The  old  man  was  reading  a  paper. 

"  Have  I  anything  to  do,  sir  ?  "  said  Luke. 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  old  man.  "You 
might  look  at  the  stables,  and  see  how  is  that  little 
mare.  That  rutlian  spares  the  elbow-grease,  I  promise 
you.  And  see  if  he  has  got  in  them  mangolds  ;  and  if 
the  thatch  is  keeping  right  on  that  hay.  And,  in  the 
afternoon,  you  miglit  drive  over  to  see  the  school  at 
Dorrha.  I'm  afraid  that  teacher  is  pulling  a  cord  with 
the  assistant,  and  the  children  are  neglected." 

"  At  what  hour  is  luncheon  ?  "  asked  Luke. 

"Wha-at?"  said  the  pastor,  in  alarm. 

"  Luncheon,  sir  ?  At  what  time  is  luncheon  on  the 
table  ?  " 

"  Thei-e's  no  such  thing  here,  young  man,"  said  the 
pastor.  "  You'll  get  your  dinner  at  three  o'clock,  and 
your  tea  at  eight,  if  you  like.  I  never  take  it.  That's 
all." 

"Oh  I  very  good,  sir,"  said  Luke,  reddening.  "I 
didn't  know.  I  only  wanted  to  be  quite  sure,  and 
punctual  about  the  time." 

"  That  needn't  trouble  you  much,"  said  the  old  man. 
"  If  there's  anything  in  this  country  we've  enough  of, 
'tis  time,  and  water." 

Lukestrolk'd  out.  and  looked.  It  was  a  dreary  sight. 
Tlie  stone  wall  that  surrounded  the  presbytery  grounds 
had  fallen  in  several  places,  and  the  moss-grown  stones 
lay  piled  in  hopeless  confusion.  A  few  scraggy  haw- 
thorn trees,  now  loaded  with  red  liorrics,  sprang  uji  here 
and  there.  The  yard  was  littered  with  dirty  str;iw  ; 
geese,  hens,  and  turkeys  waddled  around,  picking  the 
fallen  grain,  and  occasionally  quarrelling  ;  the  mare  was 
stamping  in  the  stable  ;  and  tlie  boy  was  nowhere.  Oh, 
yes  I  he  was.  Leaning  luxuriously  against  a  hedge,  the 
dripping  of  whose  bushes  he  did  not  heed,  and  smoking 
leisurely  a  short  clay  pipe,  was  tlic  boy.  He  tlid  not 
see  Luke.  He  was  in  a  reverie,  it  must  have  been  a 
pleasant  one,  for  occasionally  he  removed  the  pipe  from 


334  LUKE  DELMEGE 

his  mouth,  and  gave  vent  to  a  long,  low  chuckle.  Some- 
times he  grew  serious,  and  even  angry,  as  he  held  the 
pipe  poised  in  one  hand,  and  the  otlier  came  down  on 
the  unresisting  air,  hot  and  heavy.  Then  he  resumed 
his  pipe  with  philosophical  placidity.  It  was  a  pity  to 
disturb  such  dreams,  but  Luke  was  inexorable.  He  had 
a  mission,  and  that  was  to  wean  away  the  Irish  charac- 
ter from  its  picturesque  irregularity,  and  to  establish 
in  its  stead  the  mechanical  monotony  of  England.  He 
did  not  say  so,  because  the  grinding  of  the  machinery 
was  still  hateful  to  him.  But  he  had  a  firm,  deep-rooted 
conviction  that  the  one  thing  wanting  in  Ireland  was 
the  implanting  of  English  ideas,  English  habits  —  thrift, 
punctuality,  forethought,  industry ;  and  that  he  was  the 
apostle  of  the  new  dispensation.  Hence  he  broke  the 
dream  of  this  hedge-side  visionary  ;  and  the  pipe,  at 
the  same  time,  fell  from  the  mouth  of  the  dreamer,  and 
was  sliattered. 

"  You  have  nothing  to  do,  I  suppose,  this  morning  ?  " 

"  I  have,  your  reverence,"  the  boy  answered  sullenly. 

"  Then,  why  not  do  it  ?  "  said  Luke. 

"  I  was  waitin'  for  the  min  to  turn  up  about  thim 
mangels,"  said  the  boy. 

"  And,  whilst  waiting,  could  you  not  get  that  grease 
for  the  priest's  horse  ?  " 

"■  What  grase,  your  reverence  ?  " 

"  The  parish  priest  says  the  mare  is  ruined  for  want 
of  elbow-grease,"  said  Luke. 

The  man  looked  at  his  interrogator  keenly,  looked 
him  all  over,  laughed  deep  down  in  his  heart,  as  he  had 
never  laughed  before  ;  but  said,  with  a  face  of  preter- 
natural solemnity  :  — 

"  Very  well,  your  reverence  ;   I'll  see  to  it." 

The  parish  priest  was  very  much  surprised  for  sev- 
eral days  at  the  very  unusual  hilarity  that  prevailed  in 
the  kitchen  ;  and  sometimes  Ellie,  the  under  servant, 
found  it  difficult  to  avoid  tittering,  when  she  brought 
the  dishes  to  tabic. 

Luke  visited  the  school  at  Dorrha.     It  was  a  poor, 


ALTRUISM  335 

little  mountain  school,  witli  about  seventy  pupils.  A 
few  tattered  maps,  from  which  the  sharp  pointers  had 
long  since  worn  away  the  political  divisions  of  coun- 
tries, hung  around  the  walls  ;  a  clock  stared  silentl}^  at 
the  ceiling  ;  and  on  a  blackboard  were  certain  hiero- 
glyphics supposed  to  be  geometrical.  The  teacher 
made  a  profound  bow  to  Luke.       l^uke  responded. 

"Would  his  reverence  take  a  class?" 

"With  pleasure." 

"  Which  would  his  reverence  please  to  examine  ?  " 

"  It  made  no  difference.     Say  the  sixth." 

"They'll  be  afraid  of  your  reverence,"  whispered  the 
teacher.  "  They  have  been  reading  all  about  you  in 
the  paper  ;  and  they  know  all  about  Maynooth." 

Here  was  the  First  of  Firsts  buried  in  silence  for 
seven  long  years,  trotted  out  again  in  dear,  magnani- 
mous Ireland. 

The  children  did  look  frightened  enough,  especially 
when  Luke  ordered  them  to  keep  their  heels  together 
and  liold  up  tlieir  hea<ls.  Alas  I  that  is  not  so  easy. 
The  weight  of  seven  centuries  of  serfdom  is  upon  them. 
How  can  tliey  stand  straight,  or  look  you  in  the  face? 

Then,  Luke  was  too  precise. 

"  If  you  want  to  read  well,"  he  explained,  "you  must 
give  full  expression  to  every  vowel  and  lean  on  every 
consonant.  There,  now,  what  crime  did  that  final  <j 
commit  tiiat  you  elide  it  ?  I  don't  see  h  in  water. 
Hold  up  your  heads.       Look  me  straight  in  the  face," 

Luke  thought  the  lesson  quite  al)surd.  It  was  about 
])olitical  economy,  and  was  very  dismal  and  abstruse. 
He  flung  the  book  aside.  He  woulil  coiiuuence  the 
education  df  these  children  on   new  lines. 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  hygieiu\  (diihlrcn?" 

No.      They  had  never  heard  of  the  goddess   Hygeia. 

"  I  notice  that  your  teeth  are,  for  the  most  part, 
deca3'ed,  or  in  process  of  decay.  Oo  you  know  what 
that  proceeds  from,  or  how  it  may  l)e  arrested?" 

"  Atin'  sweets,"  the}-  said  in  a  chorus. 


336 


LUKE  DELMEGE 


"  Perhaps  that  is  the  remote  or  secondary  cause. 
The  immediate  cause  is  want  of  phosphates  in  the 
blood.     Do  you  know  what  phosphates  are  ?  " 

"  We  do." 

"Well.     What  are  phosphates  ?  " 

"  Guano  —  manoor. " 

"  Not  quite.  You're  confounding  two  things."  And 
Luke  went  on  to  explain  the  arterial  supplies  to  the 
teeth,  and  the  reflex  nervous  action  on  the  brain  ;  the 
absolute  necessity,  therefore,  of  eschewing  tea,  and  liv- 
ing on  phosphates,  like  oatmeal.  He  was  a  confirmed 
tea-drinker  himself. 

Before  the  Angelus  bell  tolled  that  evening,  it  was 
reported  through  the  parish  that  a  Protestant  parson 
from  England  had  visited  the  school,  and  had  recom- 
mended the  children  to  go  back  to  the  diet  of  the  famine 
years. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

THE   SECRET   OF   THE   KING 

Father  Tracey,  ex-parish  priest,  chaplain  to  the  City 
Hospital,  was  rejoiced,  humbled,  elated,  stupefied,  one  of 
these  days  in  early  October.  His  conduct,  indeed,  gave 
rise  to  not  a  little  comment.  When  a  man  stands  still 
in  the  midst  of  a  crowded  street  and  stares  at  the 
ground,  and  then  drives  his  stick  into  it  fiercely,  and 
walks  away  with  his  head  in  the  air,  people  are  apt  to 
be  unkind  in  their  conjectures.  But,  to  have  seen  him 
read  his  Office  tliese  days  was  a  rare  and  portentous  ex- 
perience. For  he  kissed  the  ground,  and  abased  him- 
self a  hundred  times  before  his  Maker  ;  and,  then,  at 
the  Laudates  flung  out  his  arms,  like  a  cross,  and  sang 
them  into  the  ears  of  heaven.  It  was  all  about  some- 
thing that  had  happened  at  the  death  of  Allua.  For 
Father  Tracey  was  also  chaplain  to  the  penitents  at  the 
Good  Shepherd  Convent.  He  had  been  offered  the 
chaplaincy  to  the  nuns,  but  declined  it  with  a  shiver. 

"•  Who  am  I,"  said  he,  "to  take  tliese  saints  up  the 
steep  ladder  of  perfection  ?  But,  if  your  Lordship 
would  let  me  look  after  these  poor  penitents  — " 

He  had  his  wish  ;  but  never  after  si)oke  of  his  charge 
as  "penitents*';  that  im[)lied  some  harshness.  The}' 
were  "his  little  children,"  or"  his  saints."  Now  he  had 
seen  wonderful  miracles  wrought  amongst  his  saints  — 
miracles  of  grace  and  mercy  unimaginal)le  —  souls,  vis- 
ibly snatched  from  hell  ;  souls,  lifted  to  the  highest 
empyrean  of  sanctity,  and  the  holy  old  man  wondered, 
exulted,  and  was  glad. 

z  337 


33b  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  There  isn't  in  the  world,"  he  said,  "  a  happier  ola 
man  than  I.  What  did  I  do,  that  God  should  be  so 
good  to  me  ?  "  And  he  plunged  his  stick  into  the 
ground. 

Well,  Allua,  little  child  of  the  convent-school,  had 
passed  through  the  hell  of  London  life,  and  had  been 
snatched  from  the  deeper  Hell  by  the  merc}^  of  her 
Lord.  And  Allua  was  about  to  die.  The  poor  child 
had  passed  through  terrific  temptation,  since  she  had 
been  safely  housed  beneath  the  sheltering  arms  of  the 
Good  Shepherd  —  temptations  from  circumstances  in 
her  former  life,  temptations  from  the  unseen — lastly, 
temptations  to  despair.  Margery,  who  was  privileged 
to  be  near  her,  described  these  temptations  as  fearful  in 
the  extreme. 

"  You  can  see  everything  that  the  Saints  have  told," 
she  said  ;   "everything  but  the  faces  of  the  evil  spirits." 

Father  Tracey  was  troubled  during  these  eventful 
days.  He  asked  for  redoubled  prayers,  for  daily  com- 
munion. Then,  in  his  great  anxiety  and  humility,  he 
sent  for  Father  Meade.  And  so,  when  the  end  had 
come,  the  poor  dying  penitent  saw  bending  over  her 
the  two  familiar  faces  of  the  priests  who  had  saved  her, 
and  then  came  a  moment  of  supreme  tranquillit3^ 

"'Tis  all  over  now.  Father.  But  oh  !  it  was  terrible 
whilst  it  lasted." 

And  then  in  profound  peace  and  ecstasy  the  poor 
trembling  soul  passed  into  the  arms  of  the  Good  Shep- 
herd. It  was  early  morning,  and  Father  Tracey  went 
straight  to  the  altar  and  celebrated  Mass.  Margery 
was  privileged  to  bring  him  his  humble  breakfast  ;  for 
Margery  was  a  great  favourite.  It  was  very  amusing 
to  see  the  young  Sister  putting  little  dainties  into  the 
old  priest's  plate,  and  the  old  man  as  carefully  putting 
them  aside.  Sometimes  Margery  succeeded  by  clever 
little  strataGfems. 

"  Most  people  don't  eat  that.  Father.  They  say  it 
isn't  nice.     /  wouldn't  eat  it." 

"  Indeed  ? "    the  good  old    man  would    reply,  as  he 


THE   SECRET   OF   THE    KING  339 

gobl)le(l  up  the  dainty.     And  then  he  would  gravely 
shake  his  head. 

"Why  don't  you  brush  your  hat,  Father?     There, 
I've  done  it  now.     Can't  you  send  up  that  old  coat, 
and  we'll  have  it  dyed  here  ?     There  now,  you're  hor 
rid  this  morning.      You  came  out  unshaved." 

And  Father  Tracey  would  blush,  like  a  girl,  and 
apologize  for  his  negligence. 

"You  want  to  make  me  like  that  grand  brother  of 
yours,  who'll  be  our  Bishop  some  day,  I  suppose.  Ah 
me  !  Tliose  clever  young  men  I  Those  clever  young- 
men  !  " 

And  Margery,  with  her  hands  folded  beneath  her 
scapulary,  would  silently  pray  that  her  grand  l)rother 
might  some  day  be  even  as  this  poor,  despised  old 
priest. 

But  this  morning  there  was  great  colloguing.  They 
had  heard  or  seen  something  supernatural,  there  in 
that  Inlirmary;  and  Father  Tracey  was  crying  with 
joy  and  ecstasy,  and  Margery  was  crying  to  keep  him 
company. 

"I  can't  believe  it,"  said  Father  Tracey,  trying  to 
gulp  down  his  tea.  "It's  too  grand  —  or,  God  forgive 
me,  why  should  I  say,  'anything  too  grand'  for  the 
Father  of  all  miracles  and  mercies  ?  " 

"  It's  quite  true,  then,"  said  Margery.  "  I  didn't 
notice  it  myself,  until  you  called  for  players  for  jtoor 
AUua  in  her  agony.  Then,  I  went  straight  to  Mother 
Provincial,  and  tohl  her.  She  warned  me  tliat  1  was 
not  to  speak  of  it  to  any  one  but  you.  And,  I  supjjose, 
you'll  never  keep  the  secret.  Men  never  can,  you 
know." 

"  I  wish,"  said  the  old  man  in  his  ecstasy,  "thai  I 
could  shout  it  from  the  house  tops  and  the  mountains, 
and  call  all  men  to  pray  and  glorify  God.  But,  my 
dear,  to  tell  the  trutli,  I  was  surprised  that  our  prayers 
were  heard  so  soon.  God  does  not  give  way  so  easily, 
always.     I  see  it  all  now." 

He  paused  for  a  moment. 


340  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  And  you  positively  tell  me  —  ?  " 

"  Positively.     Do  you  doubt  me,  again  ?  '* 

"No.     But  —  " 

"  1  tell  you  'tis  true.  And  our  good  Mother  knew  it 
all  the  time ;  but  not  a  word.  She  is  very  prudent. 
And  I  saw  her  once  or  twice,  when  she  thought  no  one 
was  looking,  going  down  on  her  knees,  and  kissing  the 
ground !  " 

"  God  bless  her !  "  said  the  old  priest.  He  went 
back  to  the  Infirmary.  The  frail,  shattered  form  lay, 
oh  !  so  peaceful  and  calm,  in  the  glorious  transfigura- 
tion of  death.  She  still  wore  the  penitent's  habit ;  her 
beads  were  wreathed  around  her  fingers,  which  clasped 
a  crucifix ;  and  a  few  flowers  were  pinned  here  and 
there  to  her  dress.  But  the  face  —  once  more  the  face 
of  a  little  child,  had  been  sculptured  into  unearthly 
beauty  by  the  chisel  of  Death,  who  stood  by  and 
waited,  for  he  worked  only  in  solitude,  and  seemed  to 
say  :  "  Mark  !  how  I  can  beautify  before  I  destroy.  So 
too  shall  the  reincarnation  come  after  destruction." 

Father  Meade  came  up,  too,  after  Mass  and  break- 
fast.    He  knew  nothing  of  the  great  secret. 

"  It's  a  beautiful  sight,  William,"  said  Father  Tracey, 
"  God  will  bless  you  for  this  beautiful  soul,  redeemed 
to  Him." 

But  Father  Meade  only  stooped  down,  and  blessed 
the  forehead  of  his  little  child,  and  whispered  :  — 

"  Good-bye,  Allua !  " 

And  when  Margery  accompanied  the  old  chaplain  to 
the  gate,  and  had  made  sundry  comments,  on  his  green 
coat,  and  his  brown  hat,  and  frayed  and  fringed  habili- 
ments, he  seemed  not  to  mind,  but  now  and  again 
would  stop  and  plunge  his  stick  into  the  ground,  and 
ask,  as  if  he  had  never  heard  it  before  :  — 

"  God  bless  me  !  you  don't  tell  me  ?  " 

"  But  I  do  ;  Father  dear,  what  an  unbeliever  you 
are  !  " 

"And  I  mustn't  pretend,  you  know,  to  know  any- 
thing, I  suppose  ?  " 


THE    SECRET   OF   THE    KING  341 

"  No.  You're  to  go  on,  as  if  you  saw  nothing,  and 
shut  your  eyes,  and  moutli  !  " 

"  God  bless  me  !  that  will  be  hard.  And,  you  really 
tell  me?     And  Reverend  Mother  knew  it  all  the  time?  " 

"There,  now  !  Good-bye  !  If  you  show  by  sign  or 
token  that  you  know  anything,  you'll  be  expelled ;  and 
then,  wliiit  will  your  saints  do  ?  " 

"(jiod  bless  me  !  you  don't  say  so?  Very  well,  you 
won't  see  me  as  much  as  wink  one  eye." 

But  he  was  hardly  an  adept  at  deception.  Every  one 
of  his  many  acquaintances  knew  that  something  was  up. 
And  some  wise  people,  watching  his  ecstatic  features, 
said  amongst  themselves  :  — 

"  He  has  seen  something.  Could  it  be  the  Blessed 
Virgin?" 

Margery  walked  back  from  the  gate  very  thought- 
fully, and  readied  her  cell.  Not  the  following  Sunday, 
but  some  Sundays  later,  she  penned  a  letter  to  her  great 
brother.  He,  too,  was  passing  through  strange  and 
novel  experiences. 

"  I  can  see  tlie  quaintness,  but  I  cannot  see  the  sanc- 
tity of  this  old  gentleman,"  tliought  Luke,  as  they  sat 
after  dinner,  and  chatted.  The  old  man,  following 
a  time-honoured  custom  of  thirty  years,  had  made  two 
tumblers  of  punch,  and  pushed  one  towards  his  curate. 

'^  You'll  only  get  one,  young  man,"  he  remarked, 
"but  'tis  a  decent  one." 

"  I  never  touch  the  like,"  said  Luke,  with  a  con- 
temptuous sniff. 

"  Gh  !"  said  the  old  man;  an<l  it  was  a  rather  pro- 
longeil  exclamation. 

"  Here,  Jer,"  said  the  housekeeper,  wlien  thv  ghisses 
were  removed.  Jer  was  the  nuMlilative  hoy  wlio  was 
always  ft)und  in  the  vicinity  of  tlir  l^ilclien  about  din- 
ner time.  '• 'Tis  your  luck;  though,  faitli.  you  don't 
desarve  it." 

"Ellie,  will  you  have  a  little  sup?"  said  Jerry,  gen- 
erously. Ikit  Ellie  gave  him  a  look  of  withering 
contempt. 


342  LUKE  DELMEGE 

''  Here's  3^our  health,  ma'am,"  said  Jerry,  adding  in 
his  heart :  "  May  the  Lord  help  our  young  priesht  to 
keep  his  pledge  faithfully  all  the  days  of  his  life." 

This  went  on  for  three  evenings.  The  fourth  evening 
a  strange  thing  happened.  The  prodigy  caused  much 
perturbation  in  the  kitchen,  and  afforded  Jerry  abun- 
dant food  for  anxious  reflection  as  he  sat  under  his 
favourite  hawthorn.  What  was  the  explanation  ?  Had 
the  young  priest  forsworn  his  pledge  and  gone  the  way 
of  his  fathers?  Impossible.  Had  the  parish  priest 
swallowed  both  ?  Equally  impossible.  Then,  the  fol- 
lowing evening,  but  one  tumbler  came  out  of  the  parlour ; 
and  henceforth,  but  one  —  and  the  vast  perspective  of 
tumblers,  reeking  hot,  and  extending  to  eternity,  van- 
ished, like  a  pleasant  dream. 

What  had  happened  was  this.  The  good  old  pastor, 
a  slave  to  habit,  not  heeding  Luke's  refusal  the  first 
evening,  continued  concocting  the  second  tumbler  on 
the  succeeding  nights. 

"  May  I  have  a  cup  of  coffee,  sir  ?  "  said  Luke. 

"Coffee?  No,  j^oung  man,  you  may  not.  There  is 
no  such  thing  ever  made  in  this  house.  You  can  have 
tea  for  breakfast,  and  tea  for  tea,  and  a  glass  of  good 
punch  at  your  dinner.      That's  all  !  " 

"  Thank  you  !  "  said  Luke,  curtly. 

The  fourth  evening  the  old  man  brewed  the  two  tum- 
blers as  he  had  done  for  thirty  years  ;  and  pushed  one 
towards  Luke.  Luke  thought  it  was  intended  as  an 
insult.  He  took  up  the  steaming  tumbler,  and  going 
over,  he  raised  the  window,  and  flung  the  liquid  into 
the  grass.  Then  he  put  down  the  window,  and  bring- 
ing back  the  empty  glass,  resumed  his  seat.  The  old 
man  said  not  a  word. 

Each  of  these  lonely  winter  evenings,  precisely  at 
eight  o'clock,  the  household  assembled  for  the  Rosary ; 
then,  all  lights  were  put  out.  Luke  used  retire  to  his 
bedroom,  with  what  thoughts  and  memories  may  be  con- 
jectured. The  remembrance  of  the  past  with  all  its 
intellectual  pleasures  haunted  him ;  the  future  with  all 


THE   SECRET   OF    THE   KING  343 

its  dread  possibilities  frightened  him.  Was  this  to  be 
liis  life  ?  Dreary  days,  spent  in  idleness  and  unprofit- 
able attempts  to  raise  a  helpless  and  dispirited  people  ; 
and  dreadful  evenings,  when  he  could  not  escape  from 
himself,  but  had  to  face  the  companionship  of  thoughts 
that  verged  on  despair.  Yet,  he  made  gallant  attempts. 
Youtli  and  hope  were  on  his  side  ;  and  there  was  no 
retreat.  He  had  burned  his  ships.  And,  after  all,  why 
could  he  not  do  what  the  Canon  had  done  in  and  around 
Lisnalee  ?  That  was  Arcadia ;  this  Siberia  !  Well,  the 
brave  soul  is  that  which  bends  undauntedly  to  the  hope- 
less task.     He  would  try. 

"  Now,  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings,  Conor," 
he  would  say  to  a  parishioner ;  "  but  don't  you  know 
that  that  festering  heap  of  compost  is  a  nest  of  typhus 
and  di[)htheria  ?  The  horrible  miasma  pollutes  the  entire 
atmosphere,  and  fills  the  house  with  disease  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so,  your  reverence  ;  but,  begor,  no  one 
died  in  this  house  for  the  past  three  ginerations,  except 
of  ould  age." 

"  That  is  exceptional,"  Luke  would  reply ;  "  but, 
apart  from  the  question  of  sanitation,  don't  you  think 
that  a  few  flower  beds  would  look  better  than  that  dis- 
mal swamp?" 

"  Of  course,  yer  reverence,  but  we'd  have  to  pay  dear 
for  them." 

"Not  at  all.  A  few  wallflowers  in  spring,  and  a  few 
tufts  of  primroses  —  there  are  thousands  of  them  in  the 
springtime  in  the  hedgerows, — and  a  few  simple  ge- 
raniums in  the  summer,  would  not  cost  you  one  lialf- 
crown.      Now,  Lizzie,  don't  you  agree  with  me?" 

"  I  do.  Father,"  Lizzie  would  say. 

"  So  do  I,  yer  reverence  ;  but  it  isn't  the  cost  of  the 
flowers  I'm  tliinkin'  of,  but  the  risin'  of  the  rint.  Every 
primrose  would  cost  me  a  shillin'  ;   and  —  " 

"I  thought  that  was  all  past  and  gone  forever?"  said 
Luke. 

The  poor  man  would  shake  his  head. 

"  1  daren't,  yer  reverence.     Next  year,  I'm  goin'  into 


344  LUKE  DELMEGE 

the  Land  Courts  agin  ;  and,  begor,  the  valuators  and 
commissioners  would  put  it  on,  hot  and  heav}^  if  they 
saw  a  sign  of  improvement  about  the  place." 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  Luke  would  say.  "  Then  'tis 
your  interest  to  drag  everything  back  to  prairie  con- 
ditions instead  of  improving  house  and  land  and  gar- 
dens ?  " 

"  You've  said  it,  yer  reverence,"  said  Conor. 

This  horror  opjaressed  Luke  keenly.  In  the  begin- 
ning he  used  flare  up  in  anger  when  a  poor  peasant 
would  come  to  him  on  a  sick-call  or  other  business. 

"  Put  on  your  hat.      Don't  you  see  'tis  raining  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yer  'anner." 

"  Stop  that  infernal  word.     Call  your  priest '  Father.' " 

"  Yes,  yer  'anner." 

"  Look  here,  my  poor  man.  Hold  up  your  head,  look 
me  straight  in  the  face,  and  call  me  'Father.'" 

"  Yes,  yer  'anner." 

Then  Luke  would  fume  and  foam,  and  preach  lessons 
on  independence  and  manliness,  and  that  God  should 
be  feared,  not  men  ;  and  he  quoted  the  example  of  our 
Lord,  and  His  firm,  respectful,  dignified  bearing  before 
Herod  and  Pilate.  Then,  after  a  while  he  desisted. 
It  was  no  use.  And  in  the  cold,  raw  winter,  as  he 
rolled  along  on  his  side-car,  and  saw  the  poor  farmers 
with  down-bent  heads,  and  faces  burnt  by  the  bitter 
wind,  driving  the  heavy  ploughs  into  the  hard,  unyield- 
ing earth,  he  thought  with  intense  bitterness  that  that 
poor  toiler  was  labouring,  not  for  his  own  little  family 
over  there  in  that  wretched  cabin  —  that  meant  only 
bread  and  potatoes,  —  but  for  the  agent,  that  he  might 
have  his  brandy  and  cigars  ;  and  for  two  old  ladies  in 
a  Dublin  Square,  that  they  might  give  steaks  to  their 
lap-dogs  ;  and  for  a  solicitor  again  above  them,  that  he 
might  pay  for  his  son  in  Trinity  ;  and,  on  the  highest 
pinnacle  of  the  infamous  system,  for  the  lord,  that  he 
might  have  a  racer  at  the  Derby  and  St.  Cloud,  and  a 
set  of  brilliants  for  Sadie  at  the  Opera  Comique.  And 
he  thought  with  a  shudder,  that  he  heard,  here  in  the 


i 


THE    SECRET   OF    THE    KING  345 

peaceful  Irish  valley,  the  grinding  and  jarring  of  the 
dread  engine  of  English  law.  Can  it  be,  he  said,  that 
the  horrid  thing  has  stretched  out  its  tentacles  and  grinds 
and  grasps  with  its  inexorable  unconsciousness,  even 
here  ?  But  he  put  the  dread  thought  aside.  Had  not 
the  great  Canon  risen  buoyantly  over  all  these  dii'li- 
culties,  and  created  his  little  paradise  ?  How  was  it 
done  ?     And  Luke  was  puzzled. 

He  was  also  puzzled  by  another  circumstance.  It  was 
the  quaint,  strange  language  of  this  mysterious  people. 
It  was  quite  clear  that  they  regarded  this  earth  and  this 
life  as  of  but  little  moment. 

"Wisha,  yer  reverence,  'tis  good  enough  for  the  short 
time  we're  here.  Sure  'tis  here  to-day  and  away  to- 
morrow !  " 

"  Yer  reverence,  why  should  we  throuble  about  this 
dirty  bod}^  ?     Sure,  'tis  good  enough  for  the  worms." 

"  I'm  goin'  to  me  long  home,  yer  reverence  ;  and  'tis 
time.  If  we  hadn't  much  here,  sure  we'll  have  plenty 
hereafter." 

Luke  didn't  like  all  this.  It  sounded  indeed  dread- 
fully like  the  Scriptures  :  "  Take  ye  no  thought  for  the 
morrow  ;  "  "  Which  of  ye  can  add  to  your  stature  ;  " 
"  Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field  ;  "  "  Seek  ye  first  the 
kingdom  of  God,"  etc.,  etc.  The  whole  thing  was  hor- 
ribly reactionary.  But,  these  quaint  Irish  peasants  were 
dreadfully  like  those  fishermen  of  old  ;  and  their  i)hi- 
losophy  of  life  was  suspiciously  a  reflection  of  tliat  wliich 
was  preached  by  the  Sea  of  Galilee  ;  and  wliich  all  men 
have  agreed  to  pronounce  Divine.  But  wliere  then 
was  the  ])hihisophy  of  the  salon,  and  the  delicious  hu- 
manitarianism  of  Amiel  Lefevril  ?  Seek  ye  the  (lod  in 
man  ?  Evident!}^  these  poor  people  didn't  believe  it 
possible  —  that  strange  quest  of  the  lUuminati. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  wintry  days  that  Luke  received 
liis  sister's  letter.      It  ran  thus  :  — 

"Dear  Luke:  —  T  cannot  help  writing  to  ask  your  prayers,  and 
if  not  too  nuicli,  a  remembrance  in  the  Holy  Sacrifice  (jierhaps,  if  you 
have  time,  you  may  give  a  whole  Mass),  for  one  of  these  poor  peui- 


346  LUKE  DELMEGE 

tents  whom  dear  Father  Meade  brought  from  England.  Oh,  Luke! 
such  a  death!  It  was  horror  after  horror  in  the  beginning.  Then, 
such  serenity  and  peace.  It  was  a  miracle ;  and  we  couldn't  under- 
stand it.  But  I  saw  something  that  explained  all.  Still  it  is  a 
great  secret;  and  I  must  not  tell.  Father  Tracey  (but  you  don't 
know  Father  Tracey,  the  dearest  old  priest  that  ever  lived)  knows 
it  too,  and  is  in  ecstasies.  But  we  must  not  tell.  But  God  is  so 
wonderful.     Some  day,  perhajis. 

"  Will  you  be  going  home  soon  ?  Do,  dear  Luke,  they're  dying 
to  see  you.  I  hope  you  like  your  mission.  Try  to  like  it,  dear 
Luke.  You  know  it  is  oidy  temporary,  and  you  will  make  it  very 
happy  if  you  take  up  and  foster  the  poor.  That  makes  life  all  rosy 
and  sunshiny.  There !  I  suppose  now  you  will  say :  That's  not 
English.  I  don't  mind.  But,  Luke,  dear,  be  humble ;  be  very 
humble.  We  all  need  be.  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  the  great  secret. 
But  some  day,  perhaps. 

"  I  suppose  Reverend  Mother  will  never  allow  this  scrawl  to  pass. 

"  Your  loving  sister, 

"  EULALIE." 

"  Conventual,  not  conventional !  "  said  Luke.  "There 
is  one  grain  of  common  sense.  I  must  run  home,  if 
only  to  see  Father  Martin,  and  ask  his  advice  about 
gettiiig  away  from  this  unhallowed  place  forever." 

Father  Martin  was  not  at  all  sympathetic. 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  do  what  all 
the  excellent  priests  of  the  diocese  have  done  before 
you,"  said  Father  Martin.  "  They  all  have  had  to  com- 
mence in  the  same  way,  and  most  seemed  to  find  pleas- 
ure where  you  experience  despair.  Do  you  think  that 
the  life  of  a  priest  should  be  one  long  holiday  of  social 
and  intellectual  pleasures  ?  " 

"  N-no,"  said  Luke.  "  That's  not  it.  If  I  had  work, 
work,  work,  from  dawn  to  dark,  I  shouldn't  mind. 
But,  this  enforced  idleness  —  and  the  daily  contact 
with  all  that  is  sordid  and — hopeless — is  enough  to 
give  any  man  the  blues." 

"•  Well,  tastes  differ.  Father  Cussen  says  he  is  su- 
premely happy,  except  when  he  thinks  of  England ; 
and  then  he  is  disposed  to  be  profane.  He  is  forever 
thanking  God  that  his  lot  is  cast  in  holy  Ireland,  among 
such  a  loving  people." 


THE   SECRET   OF    THE   KING  347 

"  I  cannot  see  it,"  said  Luke,  in  despair.  "  It  is  Eng- 
land, England  everywhere,  when  we  have  to  blame 
ourselves." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  said  Father  Martin,  looking  him 
straight  in  the  face. 

"  Well,"  said  Luke,  "  there  are  faults  on  both  sides, 
I  suppose.  I  admit,  indeed,  this  system  of  land-tenure 
is  abominable  —  " 

"  We  won't  discuss  it,"  said  Father  Martin.  "  Are 
you  reading  ?  " 

"  No.  Why  should  I  ?  All  my  books  are  in  their 
cases  in  the  stables.     I  dare  not  unpack  them." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  Because,  first,  I  shall  not  remain  here. 
Secondly,  there  is  no  room  to  put  them  in.  Thirdly, 
those  women  would  ruin  them.  Fourthly,  where  is  the 
use  of  continuing  one's  studies  in  such  a  country?" 

"  Phew,"  said  Father  Martin.  "  You  have  a  lot  to 
learn,  and  unlearn  yet,  which  is  not  found  in  books." 

"  I  have  learned  that  life  is  very  miserable,  whatever," 
said  Luke. 

"  A  priest  shouldn't  complain,"  said  Father  Martin, 
"lie  is  a  soldier.  The  outpost  duty  is  not  pleasant; 
but  it  is  duty.  The  Church  was  not  created  for  priests  ; 
but  tlie  priestliood  for  the  Church." 

"I  have  been  hearing  that,  usqne  ad  nauseam.'''  said 
Luke.  "  And  yet,  every  one  is  anxious  to  get  the  i)il- 
lows  under  his  elbows." 

"Not  ever}'  one,"  said  Father  INIartin,  gravely. 
"Tlicre  are  niimbi>rs  of  priests,  young  and  old.  in  this 
diocese,  and  elsewliere,  wlio  are  hap[)y  in  serving  God 
under  worse  circumstances  than  yours — silent  men, 
whose  life  is  one  great  sacrifice." 

"And  not  one  gleam  of  intellectual  pleasure?"  said 
Luke,  doubtingly. 

"  Except  the  elation  of  duties  Avell  discharged ;  and 
such  companionsliip  as  they  can  afford  eacli  other." 

"  Pretty  doubtful  !  "  said  Luke,  shrugging  his  shoul- 
ders.     "Better  solitude  tlian  tliat  fellow  I  " 


348  LUKE  DELMEGE 

He  pointed  to  the  photograph  of  the  poor  priest, 
around  whom  Father  Martin  had  grouped  his  demi- 
gods. 

Then,  noticing  a  look  of  pain  and  displeasure  on  the 
face  of  his  friend,  he  said  :  — 

"  I  admit,  indeed,  there  are  a  few  compensations. 
There  is  a  vague  sense  of  home,  and  freedom  from 
anxiety  about  money  matters  that  one  never  exjjeri- 
ences  in  England.  Then,  somehow,  the  landscape  is 
gaining  on  me.  I  have  seen  colouring  across  the  moors 
and  the  breasts  of  the  mountains  that  would  make  an 
artist's  fortune,  could  he  fix  it  on  canvas.  And,  then, 
certainly  the  little  children  are  very  attractive.  The  one 
thing  that  strikes  every  English  visitor  to  Ireland  are 
the  children's  eyes  —  das  Vergissmeinnicht  hlauste 
Auge!  —  " 

"•  For  heaven's  sake,  Luke,  don't  talk  that  way  before 
the  brethren.     You'd  never  hear  the  end  of  it." 

"  I  shall  go  my  own  way.  Father  Martin,"  said  Luke. 
"  If  there  be  one  thing  I  despise  before  another  it  is  the 
eternal  deference  to  human  opinion." 

"  You  may  be  right,"  said  Father  Martin.  "  But, 
life  needs  its  little  adjustments ;  I  was  going  to  say  its 
little  stratagems." 

That  evening  Father  Martin  sat  long  and  anxiously 
near  his  little  stove  in  the  library  —  thinking,  thinking 
of  his  young  friend.  Very  few  would  have  spoken  to 
Luke  as  he  had  done  ;  but  he  loved  Luke,  and  would 
not  spare  his  feelings. 

''  The  Bishop  must  take  him  into  the  city,"  he  said. 
"  This  violent  change  in  his  circumstances  is  too  much 
for  him." 

Then  his  eye  caught  the  photographs. 

"  I  never  thought  it  was  so  easy  to  scandalize  the 
young,"  he  said.  "  I  Avonder  in  what  fit  of  diabolical 
uncharitableness  did  I  put  that  photograph  there  ? " 
He  took  down  the  frame  and  unscrewed  it  from  behind. 
He  then  removed  the  picture  that  represented  "  con- 
ceited emptiness,"  and  put  it  carefully  in   an  album. 


THE   SECRET   OF    THE    KING  349 

He  balanced  the  remaining  photographs  for  a  long  time 
in  his  liand.  At  last,  he  dropped  them,  one  by  one, 
into  the  stove. 

"  Satan,  or  self,  which  is  the  same,  is  lookincf  tiiroucfh 
their  eyes,"  he  said.  "  The  crucitix  is  enough  for  an 
old  man." 

And  Luke  went  back  to  his  lonely  room,  and  sat  on 
the  rude  deal  chair  these  long,  wear}',  winter  nights, 
watching  the  rough  iron  bedstead,  and  tlie  thick  red 
quilt,  and  the  painted  washstand  and  the  broken  jug  ; 
hearkening  to  the  heavy  breathing  of  his  good  pastor 
in  the  next  room;  and  thinking,  thinking  of  the  beau- 
tiful past,  that  had  vanished  so  swiftly,  and  wondering 
through  what  narrow  loophole  would  he  escape  the 
unendurable  present  and  the  unpromising  future. 

And  there  in  the  city,  in  a  room  far  worse  furnished, 
knelt  an  aged  priest,  who  thanked  (lod  for  his  su})r('me 
and  unalloyed  felicity,  and  who  cried  in  loving  A\()nder 
to  the  pale  face  on  his  crucifix  :  "  Lord,  Lord,  what  have 
I  done  to  deserve  it  all  ?  Stop,  stop  this  flood  of  delight, 
or  I'll  die." 

And  when  routed  from  his  wretched  pallet  at  mid- 
night, he  drew  on  his  dingy  clothes,  and  murmurctl, 
"  What  poor  soul  wants  me  now?"  And  when  lighted 
by  the  night-nurse  along  the  gloomy  wards,  where 
tossed  poor  diseased  humaiiily,  and  some  sk'e})less 
patient  caught  the  light  of  his  holy  face,  and  mur- 
mured, ''(iod  bless  you!"  and  when  he  came  to  the 
coucli  of  the  dying,  and  saw  the  huppy  look  creep  into 
the  wistful,  eager  face,  that  now  turned  to  Death  tran- 
quilly, for  here  was  the  man  who  could  transform  the 
Kincf  of  Terrors  into  an  Ansfel  of  Liirht,  —  he  mur- 
mured,  as  he  uncovered  the  pyx,  and  knelt  before  the 
Divine  Healer  of  Humanity:  — 

"Lord  !  Lord  !  how  wonderful  art  Thou  I  and  how 
generous  !  And  what  a  dread  purgatory  I  shall  have 
for  the  heaven  Thou  hast  given  me  liere  I  " 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

A   GREAT   TREASURE 

Luke  did  not  remain  long  with  the  quaint  pastor, 
who  was  also  a  saint.  This  latter  fact  Luke  took  a 
long  time  to  realize,  although  he  had  the  Bishop's  word 
for  it.  He  could  not  quite  understand  how  the  aureole 
of  sanctity  hung  around  that  old  man,  who  apparently 
did  nothing  but  examine  his  hay  and  turnips  ;  and 
varied  his  visits  to  the  barn  and  haggart  by  strolling 
down  to  the  front  gate  to  get  a  chance  conversation 
with  a  passing  parishioner.  Then  the  strange  blending 
of  rare  old  Irish  melodies  with  fervent  prayer  almost 
shocked  Luke.  He  often  listened  at  his  bed-room  win- 
dow to  his  pastor,  moving  leisurely  about  the  little  gar- 
den beneath,  and  humming,  alternately  with  the  psalms 
of  his  office,  that  loveliest  of  all  Irish  songs,  that  always 
reminds  one  of  the  wind  wailing  over  the  misty,  wet 
mountains  —  Savourneeyi  dheelisli^  Eileen  0;ie  !  But  it 
sounded  very  sweet,  and  sad,  and  lonely  —  there  in  that 
lonely  place,  with  nothing  to  break  the  silences  but  the 
querulous  cries  of  fowls,  or  the  swift  exultant  chant  of 
a  bird,  or  the  wind,  that  always,  even  in  summer,  wailed, 
like  a  ghost  seeking  rest.  But  gradually  Luke  felt 
himself  in  a  kind  of  sanctuary,  the  very  atmosphere  of 
which  was  prayer.  The  old  priest  moving  about  the 
room,  the  old  housekeeper  in  her  kitchen,  Ellie  in  the 
yard  —  all  seemed  to  be  holding  an  eternal  unbroken 
communing  with  the  Unseen.  So  too  with  the  peoj)le. 
The  old  women,  bending  beneath  the  brosna  of  twigs 
and  branches  for  the  scanty  fire,  the  young  mothers 
rocking  their  children's  cradles,  the  old  men  bent  over 

350 


A   GREAT    TREASURE  351 

the  ashes  in  the  open  hearth,  the  young  men  in  the 
fields, — all,  all  appeared  to  think  and  live  in  prayer, 
which  was  only  suspended  to  attend  reluctantly  to  the 
meaner  business  of  life.  And  if  the  old  priest  broke 
through  the  psalter,  in  a  moment  of  regretful  uncon- 
sciousness, to  murmur  Savourneen  dheelish,  the  young 
mother  would  sometimes  break  in  upon  her  lullaby, 
Cusheen  Loo,  to  whisper  a  prayer  to  the  ever  present 
Mother  and  Divine  Babe  for  her  own  sleeping  child. 
And  the  sweet  salutations  :  "•  God  save  you  I  "  "  God 
save  you  kindly,  agra  ! "  spoken  in  the  honeyed  Gaelic 
—  all  bewildered  Luke.  The  visible  and  tangible  were 
in  close  communion  with  the  unseen  but  not  less  real 
world  behind  the  veils  of  time  and  space. 

It  was  this  want  of  touch  with  the  supernatural  that 
was  the  immediate  cause  of  Luke's  removal.  The  re- 
mote cause  was  the  kindly  letter  that  Father  Martin 
wrote  to  the  Bishop  about  the  young,  and  so  far,  unhappy 
priest.  Surrounded  in  spirit  with  the  grosser  atmos- 
phere which  he  had  brought  from  abroad  with  him,  he 
failed  to  enter  into  the  traditions  and  beliefs  of  the 
people  —  not,  of  course,  in  essential  dogmas,  but  in  the 
minor  matters  that  go  to  make  up  the  life  and  character 
of  a  people.  In  trying  to  modify  these  for  better  and 
more  modern  practices,  he  was  right  and  wrong.  He 
could  never  understand  why  the  people  should  not  tit 
in  their  ideas  with  his  ;  or  the  necessity  of  proceeding 
slowly  in  uprooting  ancient  traditions,  and  conserving 
whatever  was  useful  in  them.  Hence  he  was  often  in 
conflict  with  the  people's  ideas.  'IMu'v  were  puzzled 
at  what  they  deemed  an  almost  sacrilegious  interference 
with  their  habits  ;  he  was  annoyed  at  their  unwilling- 
ness to  adopt  his  ideals.  But  they  had  loo  deep  and 
reverential  a  fear  and  respect  for  his  sacred  character  to 
say  anything  but  what  was  deferential,  l^ut  the  old 
men  shook  iheir  heads.  At  last,  he  touched  a  delicate 
nerve  in  the  Irish  mind,  and  tliere  was  a  protest,  deep, 
angry,  and  determined.     He  had  touched  their  dead. 

He  had  protested  often  and  preached  against   Irish 


352  LUKE  DELMEGE 

funerals  and  Irish  wakes.  He  could  not  understand  the 
sacred  instinct  that  led  people,  at  enormous  expense 
and  great  waste  of  time,  to  bury  their  dead  far  away 
from  home,  sometimes  on  the  side  of  a  steep  hill,  some- 
times in  a  well-covered  inclosure  in  the  midst  of  a 
meadow.  It  was  with  a  certain  feeling  of  impatience 
and  disgust  he  headed  these  lonely  processions  of  cars 
and  horses  and  horsemen  across  the  muddy  and  dusty 
roads,  winding  in  and  out  in  slow  solemnity  for  fifteen 
or  twenty  miles,  until  at  last  they  stopped  ;  and  the 
coffin  was  borne  on  men's  shoulders  across  the  wet  field 
to  where  a  ruined,  moss-grown  gable  was  almost  covered 
with  a  forest  of  hemlocks  or  nettles.  Then  there  was  a 
long  dreary  search  for  the  grave  ;  and  at  last  the  poor 
remains  were  deposited  under  the  shadow  of  the  crum- 
bling ruin,  ivy-covered  and  yielding  to  the  slow  corro- 
sion of  time,  whilst  the  mourners  departed,  and  thought 
no  more  of  the  silent  slumberer  beneath.  Luke  could 
not  understand  it.  He  preached  against  the  waste  of 
time  involved,  the  numbers  of  farmers  brought  away 
from  their  daily  work,  the  absurdity  of  separating  hus- 
band from  wife,  in  compliance  with  an  absurd  custom. 
He  had  never  heard  of  the  tradition  that  had  come 
down  unbroken  for  a  thousand  years  —  that  there  in 
that  lonely  abbey  was  the  dust  of  a  saint ;  and  that  he 
had  promised  on  his  deathbed  that  every  one  buried  with 
him  there  should  rise  with  him  to  a  glorious  resurrec- 
tion. And  these  strange  people  looked  askance  at  the 
new  trim  cemetery,  laid  out  by  the  Board  of  Guardians, 
with  its  two  chapels  and  its  marble  monuments  erected 
over  one  or  two  of  the  Protestant  dead.  They  pre- 
ferred the  crumljling  walls,  the  nettles  and  hemlock, 
and  the  saint,  and  the  abbey,  and  the  resurrection. 

Luke  was  called  to  see  an  old  j^arishioner  who  was 
dying.  The  old  man  lay,  a  figure  of  perfect  manhood 
even  in  age,  on  a  low  bed,  under  a  chintz  canopy,  to 
which  were  pinned  various  pictures  of  the  saints.  The 
priest  discharged  his  duties  with  precision,  and  turned 
to  depart. 


A   GREAT    TREASURE  353 

"  Your  reverence  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Luke.     "  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  say  a  word  to  rise  me  heart  for  me 
long  journey,  your  reverence." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Luke,  who  then  and  there  gave  a 
long  dissertation  on  immortality,  chiefly  culled  from 
the  Pliaedo. 

"  Your  reverence,  I  don't  understand  wan  worrd  of 
what  you're  sayin'  ;  but  I  su[)pose  you  mane  well. 
Will  the  Man  above  have  anything  agin  me  in  His 
books  ?  " 

This  dread  simile,  prompted  l)y  sad  experiences  of 
the  agent's  office,  shocked  I^uke. 

"  I'm  sure,''  he  said,  "  Almighty  God  has  pardoned 
you.  You  have  made  a  good  confession  ;  and  your  life 
has  been  a  holy  and  pure  one." 

"And  did  your  reverence  give  me  a  clare  resate?" 
asked  the  old  man. 

Here  was  the  agent's  office  again. 

"  I've  given  you  absolution,  my  poor  man,"  said  Luke. 
"You  must  know  that  God  has  pardoned  you  all." 

"  Thanks,  your  reverence,"  said  the  old  man,  relapsing 
into  silence. 

Luke  said  Mass  reluctantly  in  the  house  when  the  old 
man  liad  died.  He  hated  the  thoucfht  of  savinsf  iNIass 
under  the  poor  and  even  sordid  circumstances  of  tliese 
country  houses.  The  funeral  was  fixed  to  leave  at 
eleven  o'clock. 

"Eleven  o'clock  is  eleven  o'clock,"  said  Luke,  with 
emphasis.  "  It  is  not  five  minutes  to  eleven,  or  iive 
minutes  after  eleven  ;   but  eleven,  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Av  coorse,  yer  reverence.  'Tis  a  long  journey  to 
the  abbey  and  we  must  start  airly." 

"  I  can't  see  why  you  wouldn't  bury  your  father  over 
there  in  the  new  cemetery,"  said  Luke. 

"He  wished  to  go  with  liis  own,"  was  the  reply. 

Luke  was  at  the  house  of  mourninsx  at  five  minutes 
to  eleven.  There  was  no  sign  of  a  funeral.  He  pro- 
tested. 


354  LUKE   DELMEGE 

"  The  hearse  and  the  coffin  have  not  come,  yer  rever- 
ence," was  the  repl}^ 

"  But  why  not  ?     Were  they  ordered  ?  " 

"  They  were  ordhered  to  be  here  on  the  sthroke  of 
tin,"  was  the  answer. 

At  about  half -past  eleven  the  hearse  was  driven  up 
leisurely. 

"  Why  weren't  you  here  at  the  time  appointed?  "  said 
Luke,  angrily. 

"  The  toime  appinted  ? "  said  the  driver,  coolly. 
"  Yerra,  what  hurry  is  there  ?     Isn't  the  day  long  ?  " 

Luke  gave  up  the  riddle.  Half-past  eleven  came, 
twelve,  half -past  twelve  ;  and  then  the  neighbours 
began  to  gather.  Luke's  temper  was  rising  with  every 
minute  that  was  thus  lost.  And  then  he  began  to 
notice  the  young  girls  of  the  house  rushing  out  frantic- 
ally, and  dragging  in  the  drivers  and  jarvies  to  the 
house  of  mourning,  from  which  these  soon  emerged, 
suspiciously  wiping  their  mouths  with  the  back  of  the 
hand.     Luke  seized  on  one. 

"  You've  had  drink  there  ?  "  he  said. 

"  A  little  taste  agin  the  road,  yer  reverence,"  the  man 
said. 

"  That's  enough,"  said  Luke.  He  tore  off  the  cypress- 
lawn,  which  the  priests  in  Ireland  wear  in  the  form  of 
a  deacon's  stole,  and  flung  it  on  the  ground.  Then  he 
turned  the  horse's  head  homeward.  There  was  a  cr} 
of  consternation,  and  a  shout.  But  Luke  was  deter- 
mined. He  peremptorily  ordered  the  man  to  drive 
forward.  One  or  two  farmers  begged  and  besought 
him  to  remain,  and  even  caught  his  horse's  head.  Luke 
took  the  whip  and  drove  his  horse  into  a  gallop ;  and 
never  drew  rein  till  he  entered  the  yard. 

"-  You're  home  early,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  Yes,"  said  Luke,  laconically. 

"  You  didn't  go  the  whole  way  ?  Anything  wrong 
with  the  mare  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  attend  the  funeral,"  said  Luke.  "  I  saw 
them  dispensing  drink ;  and  the  statutes  forbade  me  to 
attend  further." 


A   GREAT   TREASURE  355 

"  The  wha-at  ?  "  said  the  old  priest. 

"  The  statutes  —  the  statutes  of  the  diocese,"  said 
Luke,  impatiently. 

"■  Phew-ew-ew-ew  !  "  whistled  the  old  man.  And 
after  a  pause:  "•  You'll  have  a  nice  row  over  this,  young 
man.  They  may  forgive  all  3'our  abuse  of  the  country, 
and  your  comparisons  with  England  ;  but  they'll  never 
forgive  you  for  turning  your  back  on  the  dead.  And 
Myles  McLoughlin  was  the  decentest  man  in  the 
parish." 

"  But,  are  not  the  statutes  clear  and  determinate  on 
the  point  ? "  said  Luke.  "  And  where  is  the  use  of 
legislation,  if  it  is  not  carried  out  ?  " 

"  You're  not  long  in  this  country  ? "  said  the  old 
man. 

"  No  —  no  !  "  said  Luke. 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  the  good  pastor,  rising  in  a  pre- 
occupied manner.  He  went  over  to  the  window  and 
looked  out.  He  then  began  to  hum  Savourneen  dheel- 
ish,  and  Luke  knew  there  was  an  end  to  the  dialogue. 

The  following  Sunday,  after  last  Mass,  at  which  Luke 
had  explained  and  justified  his  action  very  much  to  his 
own  satisfaction,  a  deputation  called  on  the  i:)arish 
priest.  They  demanded  the  instant  removal  of  tliis 
Englishman.  The  old  man  tried  to  "•  soother  them 
down,"  as  he  said.  He  might  as  well  have  tried  to  ex- 
tinguish a  volcano.     They  left  in  silence.     One  said: — 

"•  You  wouldn't  have  done  it,  yer  reverence  ;  nor  any 
of  our  ould,  dacent  prieshts,  who  felt  for  the  people." 

Luke  thought  it  was  all  over.  His  arguments  were 
crushing  and  invincible.  There  was  no  answtT  possible. 
He  thought  men  were  led  by  logic — one  of  his  many 
mistakes.  The  following  Sunday,  when  he  turned 
around  to  say  the  Acts,  there  was  no  congregation. 
Mounted  scouts  had  been  out  all  the  morning  to  turn 
the  i)eoi»le  away  from  Mass.  No  one  dared  come.  The 
following  Sunilay  the  same  thing  occurred.  Then 
Luke  felt  it  was  serious.  He  wrote  a  long  letter  in 
self-justification  to  the  Bishop,  and  then  demanded  his 


356  LUKE  DELMEGE 

removal.  The  Bishop  would  have  supported  him  and 
fought  with  him  for  the  maintenance  of  a  great  prin- 
ciple, but  the  old  quiet  pastor  implored  him  with  tears 
to  remove  this  wild  curate,  and  restore  peace.  And 
Luke  was  removed  in  promotion. 

Father  Martin  heard  the  whole  story,  and  wrote  a 
long,  kind,  firm  letter,  which  made  a  deep  impression 
on  his  young  friend.  The  closing  sentence  was  a  strong 
recommendation  to  be  "  all  things  to  all  men,"  like  St. 
Paul,  and  to  remember  "  that  life  required  its  adjust- 
ments, and  even  its  stratagems,"  from  time  to  time. 

It  was  a  happy  change  in  more  senses  than  one.  The 
moment  the  people  had  won  the  victory,  they  relente^d. 
They  were  really  sorry  for  their  young  priest.  Several 
assured  him  that  it  was  "  only  a  parcel  of  blagards,  who 
weren't  good  for  king  or  country,"  that  had  caused  all 
the  row.  Luke  said  nothing ;  but  left,  a  mortified, 
humbled  man.  He  knew  well  that  althouofh  he  had 
maintained  a  great  principle,  it  had  left  a  stain  on  his 
character  forever. 

He  was  promoted,  however,  and  this  time  to  a  pretty 
village,  hidden  away  in  a  wilderness  of  forest,  —  a  clean, 
pretty  little  hamlet,  with  roses  and  woodbine  trailed 
around  the  trellised  windows,  and  dainty  gardens  full 
of  begonias  and  geraniums  before  each  door. 

"  It's  a  piece  of  Kent  or  Sussex,  which  some  good 
angel  has  wafted  hither,"  said  Luke. 

Everything  was  in  uniformity  with  this  external  as- 
pect. There  was  a  fine  church  at  one  end  of  the  village, 
a  neat  presbytery,  and  the  dearest,  gentlest  old  pastor 
that  ever  lived,  even  in  holy  Ireland.  He  was  an  old 
man,  and  stooped  from  an  affection  in  the  neck,  like 
St.  Alphonsus  ;  his  face  was  marble-white,  and  his  long 
hair  snow-white.  And  he  spoke  so  softly,  so  sweetly, 
that  it  was  an  education  to  listen  to  him.  Like  so  many 
of  his  class  in  Ireland,  experience  and  love  had  taught 
him  to  show  the  toleration  of  Providence  and  the  gen- 
tleness of  Christ  towards  every  aspect  of  wayward 
humanity. 


A   GREAT    TREASURE  357 

"  You  will  find,"  said  Father  jNIartin,  in  his  letter  to 
Luke,  "your  America  here.  If  Hossmore  and  Father 
Keatinge  do  not  suit  3'ou,  nothing  will.  Try  and  relax 
your  horrible  stiffness,  that  freezes  the  people's  hearts 
towards  you,  and  be  ^  all  things  to  all  men,'  like  that 
great  lover  of  Christ,  St.  Paul." 

So  Luke  made  frantic  resolutions,  as  he  settled  down 
in  a  neat  two-story  cottage  in  the  village,  and  unpacked 
his  books,  and  arranged  his  furniture,  that  this  should 
be  a  happy  resting-place,  at  least  for  a  time,  and  that 
he  would  adapt  himself  to  his  surroundings,  and  be  very 
cordial  and  friendly  with  the  people. 

"All  things  to  all  men!"  Dear  St.  Paul,  did  you 
know  what  elasticity  and  plasmatism,  what  a  spirit  of 
bonhommie  and  compromise,  what  vast,  divine  tolera- 
tion of  human  eccentricity  you  demanded  when  you 
laid  down  that  noble,  far-reaching,  but  not  too  realiz- 
able principle?  Noble  and  sacred  it  is;  but  in  what 
environments  soever,  how  difficult  !  This  fitting  in  of 
human  practice,  indurated  into  the  granite  of  habit, 
with  all  the  hollows  and  crevices  of  our  brothers'  ways, 
ah  I  it  needs  a  saint,  and  even  such  a  saint  as  thou,  tent- 
maker  of  Tarsus,  and  seer  and  sage  unto  all  generations  ! 

Luke  found  it  hard.  Cast  into  new  environments, 
how  could  he  fit  in  suddenly  with  them  ?  Suave,  gentle, 
polished,  cultivated,  through  secret  refiection,  large 
reading,  and  daily  intercourse  with  all  that  had  been 
filed  down  into  tranquil  and  composed  mannerism, 
how  was  he  to  ada})t  himself  to  circumstances,  wliere  a 
boisterous  and  turl)ulent  nuinner  would  l)e  intt'rjM'ett'd 
as  an  indication  of  a  strong,  free,  generous  mind,  and 
where  liis  gentle  urbanity  would  be  e(iually  interpreted 
as  the  outer  and  visible  sign  of  a  weak,  timid  disposition, 
with  too  great  a  bias  towards  gentility.  Yet  he  must 
try. 

"  ^Vell,  Mary,  how  are  all  the  bairns  ?  "  he  said  cheer- 
ily to  a  young  buxom  mother,  who  carried  one  chubby 
youngster  in  her  arms,  and  was  convoyed  by  two  or 
tlu'ee  more. 


358  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  Wisha,  begor,  your  reverence,  we  have  but  one 
barn;  and  'tis  nearly  always  impty." 

''  I  meant  the  children,"  said  Luke,  flushing. 

"  Oh,  the  childre  !  All  well,  your  reverence.  Spake 
to  the  new  priest,  Katie  ;  there  now,  ducky,  spake  to 
the  priest,  alanna  !  " 

But  Katie  was  shy,  and  put  her  finger  in  her  moutL, 
and  looked  up  in  a  frightened  way  at  his  reverence. 

"  Shake  hands,  little  woman,"  said  Luke,  cheerily, 
"  and  we'll  be  good  friends.     Shake  hands  !  " 

But  Katie  declined.  Probably  she  had  heard  that  it 
was  not  considered  polite  for  a  lady  to  offer  her  hand 
to  a  gentleman  on  a  first  introduction.  Now,  if  Luke 
had  been  wise  he  would  have  closed  the  conference 
there.     But  he  was  determined  to  win  that  child. 

"  What  have  I  done  to  you,  little  woman?  "  he  said. 
"Let  us  be  friends.  Come  now,  shake  hands."  Katie 
still  declined. 

"  Shake  hands,  miss,  with  the  priest,"  said  the  mother, 
shaking  her  angrily. 

"•Let  her  alone,"  said  Luke.  "She'll  come  round 
immediately."     But  Katie  was  not  coming  round. 

"  Shake  hands,  miss,  I  tell  you,"  said  the  mother,  now 
fast  losing  control  of  her  temper.  Katie  wept  the  tears 
of  childhood. 

"  Begor,  we'll  see,"  said  the  mother,  "  who'll  be  mis- 
tress here.  Hould  him,"  she  cried  to  a  servant  girl, 
transferring  the  baby  to  her  arms.  Then  Katie  was 
spanked,  notwithstanding  the  piteous  appeals  of  Luke, 
who  was  horrified  at  the  results  of  his  intended  kind- 
ness. He  put  his  fingers  in  his  ears  to  keep  out  the 
screams  of  the  child,  at  which  ceremony  the  servant- 
maid  laughed  rudely  ;   and  Luke  rushed  from  the  cabin. 

"  Wisha,  'twasn't  the  poor  child's  fault,"  said  the 
mother  in  subsequent  explanations  to  a  neighbour,  "  but 
his  gran'  accint.  'Twas  enough  to  frighten  the  child 
into  a  fit." 

One  would  have  thought  that  this  was  a  lesson.  But 
to  Luke's  mind  babies  were  irresistible.     The  cold,  calm 


A   GREAT   TREASURE  359 

way  in  which  their  wide  round  eyes,  so  frank  and  hon- 
est, stared  at  him  until  he  winked  ;  the  unfathomable 
depths  in  these  same  eyes,  as  if  they  were  wondering-, 
wondering,  wondering,  "Where  did  I  meet  you  before  '/" 
made  Luke  half  a  heretic.  He  was  beginning  to  believe 
in  the  anamnesis  of  the  human  mind,  and  the  faculty  of 
recalling  a  previous  existence.  This  was  confirmed  by 
the  free  and  active  interpretation  of  the  nurses  or 
mothers. 

"  Sure,  she  knows  you,  yer  reverence.  Look  at  the 
way  she  looks  at  you.  You  knows  the  priest,  ducky, 
don't  you  ?     What's  his  name,  darlin'  ?  " 

"  Gluck  !  gluck,"  says  baby. 

"  Luke  !  Luke  !  "  echoes  mother.  "  Glory  be  to  you, 
sweet  and  Holy  Mother,  did  ye  iver  hear  the  likes  be- 
fore?   And  sure  she's  as  like  your  reverence  as  two  pins." 

"  She's  an  uncommonly  pretty  child,"  said  Luke,  in 
unconscious  self-flattery.  "I  never  saw  such  eyes 
before." 

"  And  she's  as  cute  as  a  fox,"  echoes  mother.  "  Wisha, 
thin,  yer  reverence,  though  I  shouldn't  say  it,  I  had 
priests  in  my  family,  too.  We  have  come  down  low  in 
the  world  enough ;  but  there  was  thim  that  wance  held 
their  heads  high.  Did  ye  ever  hear  of  wan  Father 
Clifford,  yer  reverence,  who  lived  over  at  Caragh  ? 
'Twas  he  built  that  gran'  chapel,  the  likes  of  which  isn't 
in  the  country.  Well,  sure  he  was  my  mother's  gossip. 
And  I  had  more  of  them,  too.  But  let  bygones  be  by- 
gones.     Sure,  when  you're  down,  you're  down  !  " 

During  this  modest  assertion  of  higli  respectability 
(for  "to  have  a  priest  in  the  family,"  is,  thank  (iod,  the 
patent  of  honour  in  Ireland),  Luke  and  the  babe  stared 
wonderingly  at  each  other.  Now,  he  had  read  some- 
where, how  on  one  occasion,  a  party  of  rough  miners 
out  West,  who  had  been  banished  from  civilization  for 
years,  on  coming  down  from  the  gold-pitted  Sierras, 
with  their  wallets  stuffed  with  nuggets  and  their  very 
clothes  saturated  with  gold  dust,  had  met  a  nurse  and 
a  child.     They  stared   and    stared  at    the    apparition. 


360  LUKE  DELMEGE 

And  one  huge  giant,  who  had  not  been  washed  since  his 
baptism,  and  who  was  a  walking  armory  of  revolvers 
and  bovvie  knives,  stepped  before  his  fellows,  and 
offered  the  girl  two  handfuls  of  gold  dust  if  she  would 
allow  him  to  kiss  the  child.  The  young  lady  herself 
was  not  consulted.  But,  as  the  big  miner  stooped 
down  and  touched  the  pure  lips  of  the  child,  a  cold 
sweat  broke  out  on  his  face  and  forehead,  and  he 
trembled  under  the  fever  of  a  sweet  emotion. 

Luke  thought,  and  was  tempted.  He  said  good-b3'e 
to  the  mother,  and  stooping  down  touched  with  his  lips 
the  wet,  sweet  mouth  of  the  child.  He  walked  away, 
leaving  serious  wonderment  in  the  child's  mind,  but 
infinite  gratitude  in  the  mother's  ;  but  he  had  to  steady 
himself  against  a  tree  for  a  few  moments,  whilst  the 
current  of  strange,  unwonted  feelings  surged  through 
his  veins. 

"  That's  a  good  man,"  said  a  rough  and  ready  farmer, 
who  had  begun  the  process  of  "  edjication,"  and  was 
supposed  to  be  critical,  and  even  anti-clerical  in  his 
sympathies.  He  had  watched  the  whole  proceeding 
from  behind  a  hawthorn  hedge. 

"  He  has  a  soft  corner  in  his  heart,  however,"  said 
the  happy  mother. 

But  it  was  a  fatal  kiss  !  Luke  had  examined  his 
conscience  rather  too  scrupulously  that  night,  and 
decided  that  these  little  amenities  were  rather  enervat- 
ing, and  were  not  for  him.  And  there  was  deep  dis- 
appointment and  even  resentment  in  the  parish,  when 
it  was  found  that  the  superior  attractions  of  other 
babies  were  overlooked,  and  that  there  was  but  one 
who  was  highly  favoured. 

All  this  was  a  fair  attempt  for  one  who  was  working 
by  the  rules  of  art,  as  well  as  by  the  inspirations  of 
nature.  But  he  was  a  foreigner,  and  awkward  in  his 
approaches  towards  an  impressionable  and  sensitive 
people. 

His  really  serious  troubles  commenced  when  he  had 
to  get  a  "boy."     We  say  "  serious,"  for  in  this  quaint, 


A   GREAT   TREASURE  361 

old-fashioned  country  it  is  the  "  minor  humanities," 
not  great  cataclysms,  social  and  political,  that  con- 
stitute the  factors  of  daily  existence.  Luke  had  been 
assured  that  a  "  boy  "  was  a  necessary  and  indispen- 
sable evil.  "  You  must  get  him,  but  he'll  break  your 
heart."  It  might  be  imagined  that,  reared  in  a  country 
house,  and  with  a  young  Irishman's  innate  love  and 
knowledge  of  horses,  Luke  would  have  understood  per- 
fectly how  to  deal  with  a  servant.  But,  no  !  He  had 
been  so  completely  enervated  and  washed  out  by  his 
intercourse  with  the  soft  refinement  of  his  English 
home,  that  he  was  almost  helpless.  Then  his  tastes 
were  of  the  library,  not  of  the  stables  ;  of  the  kings' 
gardens  of  books,  not  of  mangolds  and  potatoes  ;  and 
he  looked  around  heljjlessly  for  a  qualified  man  to  see 
after  his  horse  and  cultivate  his  garden.  He  had  not 
far  to  seek.  Dowered  with  the  highest  recommenda- 
tions from  the  archdeacon  of  the  diocese,  a  young  man, 
neatly  dressed,  and  with  a  decidedly  military  appear- 
ance, proffered  his  services. 

''Did  he  understand  horses?"  Horses?  Every- 
thing, except  that  he  was  not  born  amongst  them.  He 
then  and  there  told  Luke  awful  things  about  spavins, 
ring-bones,  and  staggers,  that  Luke  had  never  heard 
of,  or  had  completely  forgotten. 

"  But  if  her  feet  are  riglit,  and  she  takes  her  oats, 
she's  all  right.     Lave  her  to  me  !  " 

"She  has  a  white  star  on  her  forehead,"  said  Luke, 
anxious  to  show  the  mare's  liigh  breeding. 

"  What  ?  "  said  the  boy,  as  his  face  lengtliened. 

"  She  lias  a  white  star  on  her  foreliead,"  stammered 
Luke. 

"That's  bad,"  said  tlie  boy,  sdU-innly.  "No  matter," 
he  said,  in  a  professional  tone,  "  I'll  make  up  for  it." 

"Do  you  know  anytliing  about  flowers?"'  asked 
Luke,  timidly.  The  fellow  saw  the  timidity,  for  he 
was  studying  Luke  closely. 

"  Flowers  ?  Ax  Lord  Cardoj-ne's  gardener,  who  took 
first  prize    at    the    'Articultural  Show  in  Dublin    last 


362  LUKE  DELMEGE 

summer,  what  he  knew.     Yes  !     Ax  him,  who  reared 
the  Mary  Antinetty  Rose,  that  —  " 

There  was  a  long  discussion  about  wages.  A  king's 
ransom  was  demanded  ;  and  it  was  asked,  as  a  smg  qua 
non  that  he  should  be  "  ate "  in  the  house.  Luke 
demurred,  but  no  use.  Luke  cut  down  the  wages  to 
the  lowest  common  multiple  ;  and  then  John  Glavin 
played  his  trump  card.  Taking  out  a  dirty  roll  of  yel- 
low papers,  tobacco-stained  and  scented,  he  proffered 
one  with  the  cool  air  of  having  thereby  victoriously 
settled  the  question.  From  this  it  appeared  that  John 
Glavin  was  an  honest,  industrious  young  man,  with  a 
good  knowledge  of  the  management  of  horses,  and  some 
ideas  of  horti-  and  flori-culture.  He  was  recommended, 
his  wages  having  been  paid  in  full. 

"  The  archdeacon  does  not  mention  sobriety  ?  "  said 
Luke. 

"  What  ?  "  said  John,  indignantly.  "  Who  says  I'm 
not  sober  ?  The  archdayken  knew  better  than  to  insult 
me!" 

"  It  would  be  more  satisfactory,  however,"  said  Luke. 

"  I  wouldn't  lave  him,"  said  John.  ''  He  says  to  me, 
•  John,'  he  says,  '  it  is  usual  to  put  in  timperate  in  a  dis- 
charge ;  but  John,'  says  he,  '  I've  too  much  respec'  for 
your  feelings,  an'  I  won't.  But  if  iver  anny  one  hints,' 
sez  he,  'that  you  are  not  a  sober  man,  remimber  you've 
an  action  agin  him  for  libel,  or  even,'  sez  he,  sez  the 
archdayken,  •■  even  for  shlander  '  —  " 

"  I  see,"  said  Luke.  "  Now,  what  wages  were  you 
getting  ?  " 

"  I'd  be  afeared  to  tell  yer  reverence,"  said  John  in  a 
soothing  and  merciful  tone. 

"  Oh,  never  mind  !  "  said  Luke.  "  I  can  bear  a  good 
deal." 

"  Well,  thin,"  said  the  rascal,  putting  his  hand  ray 
idly  across  his  lips,  "as  yer  reverence  forces  me  to  tell 
ye,  I  suppose  I  must  —  thirty  pounds  a  year.     Not  u 
pinny  less  !  " 

"  I  shall  give  you  twelve,"  said  Luke,  decisively. 


A   GREAT   TREASURE  363 

John  walked  away.  His  feelings  were  hurt.  He 
came  back. 

"  Your  reverence  wouldn't  insult  a  poor  boy.  But 
come  now,  let  us  say  twinty,  an*  be  done.'' 

"  That'll  do,"  said  Luke.     '^  Be  off." 

To  Luke's  intense  surprise  John  was  cracking  jokes 
with  the  housemaid,  and  enjoying  an  excellent  dinner, 
at  one  o'clock  in  the  kitchen.  He  then  took  possession 
of  the  place.  But  on  many  an  evening,  in  the  local 
public  house,  he  uttered  his  jeremiads  over  his  down- 
fall. From  having  been  "•  archdayken's  man "  to  be 
reduced  to  a  "  curate's  boy,"  what  a  fall  ! 

It  need  not  be  difficult  to  ascertain  the  precise  cause 
of  John  Glavin's  dethronement.  Perhaps  he  had  ex- 
hausted too  many  "tail-ends"  on  the  kitchen  stairs; 
perhaps  he  had  been  caught  with  his  ear  to  the  keyhole 
on  some  official  occasion  ;  perhaps  some  important  let- 
ters looked  as  if  other  than  the  master's  eyes  had  seen 
them.  But,  he  was  dismissed  ;  and  the  archdeacon  had 
to  undergo  a  severe  cross-examination  as  to  the  cause. 
Because  a  great  arclibishop.  from  foreign  parts,  being 
on  a  visit  to  the  archdeacon,  had  taken  a  violent  fancy 
to  the  fellow  and  expressed  a  desire  to  secure  him  for 
his  own  service  at  a  handsome  salary.  He  had  taken  a 
violent  fancy  to  John,  for  at  dinner  Jolni,  whose  speech 
was  approaching  the  inarticulate,  and  whose  eyes  had  a 
faraway  look  in  them  and  were  decidedly  aqueous,  in- 
variably addressed  tlie  archbishop  as  :  "  Me  Grace  !  " 
Oh  I  yes.  John  liad  been  to  school  in  his  younger 
days,  and  had  l)een  subjected  for  several  liours  tliai  day 
to  a  most  careful  tuition  on  tnc  h()usckcei)cr"s  part  as  to 
tlie  use  of  possessive  pronouns  in  addressing  dignitaries. 

"  '  31)/  Lord,'  and  '  i/our  Grace,'  "  said  the  housekeeper. 
"  Do  you  understand,  you  fool  ?  " 

Jolin  said  he  did,  and  he  went  around  all  day  mutter- 
ing the  talismanic  words.  But,  alas  I  what  can  a  poor 
fellow  do,  when  his  nerves  fail  under  the  eyes  of  the 
"  farseers,"  and  especially,  when  the  wheels  of  thought 
are  inclined  to  stand  still. 


364  LUKE   DELMEGE 

"John,  a  potato,  please." 

"  Yes,  me  Grace  !  " 

"John,  would  you  get  me  the  salt?" 

"  To  be  shu',  me  Grace  !  " 

"John,  pass  that  wine." 

"  The  sherry,  me  Grace  ?  " 

"  No.     The  claret." 

John's  watery  gaze  floated  over  the  table,  where 
things  had  become  horribly  confused  and  exaggerated ; 
but  he  failed  to  see  the  claret  decanter. 

" John  !  " 

"  Yes,  me  Grace  !  " 

"  Where's  that  claret  ? 

"  Cummin',  me  Grace." 

"  John  !  "  thundered  the  archdeacon. 

"  Yes,  me  Grace  !  " 

"  Go  downstairs  and  stay  there  !  " 

"  More  likely  to  stop  half-way,"  said  the  archbishop. 
"  He's  sitting  now  on  the  top  step,  weeping.  Archdea- 
con, that  fellow  is  a  treasure.    Will  you  give  him  to  me  ?  " 

The  archdeacon  was  annoyed  at  the  exhibition.  Be- 
sides, the  archdeacon  was  nowhere.  John  worshipped 
the  star  of  the  first  magnitude,  particularly  as  it  had  de- 
veloped into  a  constellation.  When  he  noticed  the  bishop, 
he  called  him  by  way  of  compensation,  "  Your  Lord  !  " 
The  archbishop  maintained  that  it  was  "  Oh  Lord  !  " 
he  said  ;  but  that  was  a  mistake.  Then  and  there,  how- 
ever, the  archbishop  saw  a  prize,  and  coveted  it.  Alas  ! 
for  John,  and  all  human  attachments.  The  master  clung 
to  him,  and  then  —  dismissed  him.  It  happened  thus. 
The  archdeacon  had  been  absent  from  home  for  a  few 
days.  His  carriage  was  waiting  for  him  at  the  railway 
station  ;  but  to  his  surprise,  John,  instead  of  alighting 
with  his  usual  alacrity,  clung  with  statuesque  tenacity 
to  the  seat.  A  porter  proffered  his  services  and  opened 
the  carriage  door.  When  they  reached  home,  John  was 
still  statuesque.  The  archdeacon  suspected  a  great  deal, 
but  said  nothing.  A  few  hours  later,  just  as  the  arch- 
deacon was  sitting  at  dinner,  he  heard  the  rumble  of 


A   GREAT    TREASURE  365 

carriage  wheels  in  tlie  yard  and  the  heavy  tramp  of  the 
liorse's  feet.  '•  What's  up  now  ?  "  said  the  archdeacon. 
Me  went  to  the  front  door  just  as  John  was  leading  the 
horse  and  carriage  from  the  yard,  and  looked  on  for  a 
few  moments  in  silence.  John,  too,  was  silent  and  ab- 
stracted, and  preoccupied  with  deep  thought.  At  last 
the  arclideacon  said  :  — 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  Wliere  'ud  1  be  goin',  is  it,  me  Grashe  ?  " 

"Yes!  that's  what  1  asked.  Where  —  are  —  you 
—  going  : 

"  Where  'ud  I  be  goin'  but  down  to  th  —  train  ?  " 

"  For  what  ?  " 

"  For  whash  ?     To  meet  your  Grashe,  to  be  shu  I  " 

"  I  see.     Going  to  the  train  to  meet  me  ?  " 

"  Yesh,  m'  Grashe.  D'3e  think  Fd  lave  you  yere  all 
ni',  mi  Grashe?"  John  was  looking  far  away  over  the 
archdeacon's  head. 

"  Take  back  that  horse  at  once,"  said  the  archdeacon. 

"  An'm  I  no'  gon'  to  meet  your  Grashe  ?  " 

"Take  back  that  liorse  at  once,  I  say." 

"  Bush  you'll  ketch  yer  det  o'  cowld,  me  Grashe  !  " 

"Take  back  that  horse,  I  say." 

"If  you  diesh,  what'U  become  o'  me  ?  Boo-hoo  I  " 
wept  John. 

The  next  day  he  was  dismissed,  and  the  archdeacon 
was  left  to  liis  fate.  But  he  had  to  stand  a  terrific  cross- 
examination  at  a  subsequent  visit  from  his  guest,  the 
archbishop,  who  could  only  by  the  greatest  dii'liculty  be 
restrained  from  makiny- an  effort  to  secure  "  the  treasure." 

"  Fd  have  taken  the  fellow  at  any  cost,"  said  the  arch- 
bisliop,  as  he  related  the  episode  to  a  friend  in  after  years, 
"  but  tlie  (loi'tor  told  me  I  should  take  my  choice  between 
apoplexy  ami  asphyxia,  if  ever  I  brought  him  to  table." 

Luke  drew  the  prize,  and  secured  the  treasure. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

MARr   OF   MAGDALA 

IjST  the  home  of  the  Good  Shepherd  the  religion  of 
our  Lord  reaches  its  cuhnination.  No  wonder  that  the 
favourite  representation  of  Chi-ist  in  catacombs  and  else- 
where for  three  hundred  years  was  tliis  of  the  yearning 
and  merciful  Saviour.  How  well  those  early  Christians 
knew  His  spirit,  when  they  placed  a  kid,  and  not  a 
lamb,  on  His  shoulders  !  "  I  came  not  to  call  the  just, 
but  sinners."  Yes  I  charity  first  and  then  the  Cruci- 
iixion  —  the  mystery  of  suffering.  And  here  in  the 
city  of  the  Violated  Treaty,  under  its  crumbling,  his- 
toric walls,  and  just  outside  its  ruins,  nestled  such  a 
home.  You  might  pass  through  the  city  a  hundred 
times  and  not  know  that  such  an  institution  was  there. 
You  might  visit  the  historic  bridge,  and  the  Treaty 
Stone,  and  never  know  that  here  also  was  a  place  where 
the  might  of  the  Lord  was  visibly  triumphant.  You 
might  hear  elsewhere  of  the  miracles  of  Christianity  — 
here  you  could  see  them.  You  might  read  of  battles, 
fought,  won,  or  lost,  around  the  Two  Standards  :  but 
here  you  can  see  the  bleeding  and  wounded  vivatidieres 
in  Satan's  army  snatched  from  tlie  battlefield,  and  shel- 
tered in  the  camp  of  Christ.  And  here,  if  you  had 
faith,  that  is,  if  you  opened  your  e3'es,  and  brushed 
aside  the  film  of  habit,  you  might  see  miracles,  and 
saints,  and  prodigies,  such  as  you  read  of  in  the  Gospel, 
or  in  mediccval  times,  when  perhaps  you  wished  you 
had  been  born  then.  So,  at  least,  thought  Father 
Tracey,  who  was  never  harsh  in  his  judgments,  except 

366 


MARY   OF  MAGDALA  367 

when  he  deplored  that  crass  stupidity  of  men,  that  will 
not  see  what  is  under  their  eyes. 

"  Nonsense,  child,"  he  would  say  to  Margery,  "  to  talk 
about  the  age  of  miracles  as  past.  Here  are  miracles  ; 
and  saints,  as  great  as  ever  were  canonized." 

Then  he  would  repent  of  such  rashness,  and  correct 
himself. 

"  Of  course,  I  don't  mean  —  that  is,  my  dear  —  I  don't 
mean  to  say  that  the  Church  should  canonize  all  my 
little  saints  that  die.  But  you  know  —  I  mean  that  our 
Lord  will  —  that  is,  I  suppose,  you  know  —  my  dear  —  " 

"  Of  course.  Father.  That  is,  we,  poor  nuns,  have  no 
chance  with  your  saints." 

"  No,  no.  I  don't  mean  that.  But,  you  know,  you 
are  all  very  good  ;  but  there  are  different  degrees  of 
sanctity  —  some  Ajjostles,  some  Doctors  —  " 

"  Yes.  But  INIary  INlagdalen  is  the  next  to  the  Sacred 
Heart,  just  a  little  outside  the  Blessed  Virgin,  and  she 
is  dragging  up  all  her  little  saints  with  her  ?  Isn't  that 
what  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  sure,  my  dear.  The  Imitation  says,  that  we 
must  not  make  comparisons,  you  know." 

"■  Yes,  But  tell  me  now,  su[)pose  you  liad  your  choice 
of  a  phic(>  in  Heaven  amongst  tlie  band  that  'follow  the 
Lamb,  whithersoever  He  goeth,'  and  sing  that  incom- 
municable canticle  ;  or  of  a  place  with  ^lagdalcn  and 
her  woundeil  following,  wliich  would  you  take?" 

"Tliat's  a  hard  (juestion,  my  dear.  But,  to  tell  the 
truth,  my  dear,  Td  be  far  more  comfortable  with  the 
latter." 

"T  knew  it,"  said  ^largcry,  exultantly.  "  I've  won 
ten  rosaries  from  Mechthihk'S." 

But,  wliatever  be  said  of  the  differt'iit  bratitiuU's  of 
Heaven,  it  is  quite  certain  llial  living  amongst  the  res- 
cued sheep  was  not  all  beatitude  on  earth.  Sometimes 
a  poor  soul  would  struggle  in  the  arms  of  the  Shrplicrd 
to  get  back  to  the  horrors  of  the  l)atth'lit'ld  :  \yould 
dream  of  gas  lamps,  and  tlic  midnight,  and  the  tierce, 
exultant  niadness  of  sin.     And,  sometimes,  there  would 


368  LUKE   DELMEGE 

be  depression  and  even  despair,  as  the  awful  visions  of 
the  past  arose  before  some  poor  soul ;  and  the  dreadful 
suggestion  would  paralyze  every  effort  at  reparation  : 
How  can  I  ever  enjoy  heaven,  when  so  many  souls,  lost 
by  my  ill-doing,  are  tortured  in  hell  ?  These  were  hard 
trials  for  Father  Tracey. 

"  No  use,  Father,  I  must  go  !  " 

"  Have  we  been  unkind,  my  dear  ?  Or,  is  there  some- 
thing else  you  could  wish  for  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  Father  dear ;  but  I  must  go  !  " 

"  Well,  dear,  don't  act  hastily.  This,  you  know,  is  a 
temptation  from  the  Evil  One.  Go  in,  and  say  a  little 
prayer  to  the  Sacred  Heart ;  and  I'll  send  Sister  Mary 
to  you." 

"  No  I  no  !  don't  !  I  won't  see  her.  She'd  make  me 
stay.     And  I  must  go  !  " 

"  Well,  sure,  there's  time  enough.  Go  in,  child,  and 
pray." 

He,  dear  saint,  had  great  faith  in  prayer.  But  he 
believed  the  prayers  of  Sister  Mary  to  be  invincible. 
Was  it  not  Sister  Mary's  prayers  that  had  saved  so 
many  souls  from  perdition?  Was  it  not  Sister  Mary's 
prayers  that  drove  the  evil  spirits,  howling  in  dismay, 
from  the  deathbed  of  Allua?  Was  she  not  the  custo- 
dian of  the  King's  secret,  who  could  do  as  she  pleased 
with  the  King's  treasures?  And  never  yet  did  a  poor 
penitent,  eager  to  tly  unto  the  dread  attraction  of  the 
world,  hear  the  voice  of  Sister  Mary,  but  her  eyes  were 
opened  and  she  saw  beneath  her  feet  the  yellow  flames 
curling  up  from  the  abyss. 

And  who  was  Sister  Mary,  or  to  give  her  her  full 
title,  who  was  Sister  Mary  of  Magdala?  Well,  a  poor 
penitent,  too,  who  had  sought  refuge  here  from  the 
world.  The  report  was  that  she  had  been  a  great 
sinner.  Even  hardened  women  spoke  of  her  past  life 
with  a  vague  hint  at  horrors ;  and,  sometimes,  when 
Sister  Mary  pressed  too  hard  on  a  relapsing  sinner,  and 
spoke  of  hell,  it  was  broadly  suggested  that  she  had 
sent  a  good  deal  of  fuel  to  the  fire. 


MARY   OF   MAGDALA  369 

"That  handsome  face  of  yours,  if  all  were  known, 
drew  many  to  drink  and  hell." 

And  Sister  Mary  did  not  contradict,  but  only  bowed 
her  head  meekly,  and  prayed  and  argued  ever  so  strongly 
for  the  wayward  and  the  tempted. 

It  would  appear,  too,  that  she  had  been  a  lady  of  very 
high  rank,  and  had  toppled  down  from  circle  to  circle 
of  the  Inferno,  until  God  took  pity  on  her  and  brought 
her  here.  And  here  she  developed  such  sanctit}'  that 
the  community  and  her  sister  penitents  were  bewildered  ; 
but  all  agreed  that  there  was  a  saint  — a  real,  downright, 
heroic  saint  —  amongst  them.  But  by  far  the  most  sur- 
prised and  bewildered  amongst  this  sacred  community 
of  nuns  and  penitents  was  the  confessor,  Father  Tracey. 
He  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  it.  He  was  confused, 
humbled,  nervous,  ashamed.  The  first  time  he  saw  this 
young  penitent  was  at  a  "})lay."  For  this  glorious 
Sisterhood  used  up  every  human  means  that  talent  or 
the  divine  ingenuity  of  charity  could  suggest  to  wean 
away  these  poor  souls  from  the  fierce  attractions  of  sin 
and  the  world.  And  so  there  were  plays,  and  concerts, 
and  dramatic  entertainments,  and  tableaux  vivants,  and 
all  kinds  of  innocent  dissipation  for  the  "-penitents." 
And  these  harmless  amusements  were  very  successful  in 
cheating  the  poor  souls  of  the  more  deadly  draughts  of 
sin,  until  grace  and  habit  tinally  triumphed.  Well,  at 
one  of  these  entertainments.  Sister  Mary  of  iNlagdala 
was  chief  actor.  She  personated  a  fine  lady  of  the 
world,  suffering  from  nerves,  and  in  consultation  with  a 
lady  specialist.  It  was  very  amusing,  and  the  au<lience 
were  in  convulsions.  Venerable  old  penitents,  who  had 
done  their  fifty  years  of  purgatory  in  this  asylum  :  young 
penitents,  fresh  from  the  pollution  of  the  city  and  with 
the  remnants  of  rural  innocence  still  clinging  to  them  ; 
dark,  gloomy  souls,  the  s})ecial  prey  of  the  tempter  ; 
and  tlie  gentle  Sisterhood,  presiding  over  all,  —  all 
yielded  to  the  irresistible  merriment.  Sister  Mary  had 
doffed  the  penitent's  dress  and  was  clad  in  the  finery  of 
the  well-dressed  Avoman  of  the  world.  It  became  her 
2b 


370  LUKE   DELMEGE 

well.  She  was  every  inch  a  lady,  and  all  the  sweetness 
and  delicacy  of  her  early  training  shone  through  the 
absurdity  of  the  part  she  was  playing. 

"Ladies  from  the  city,  my  dear?"  whispered  Father 
Tracey  to  Margery.  "  How  good  of  them  to  come  in 
and  amuse  these  poor  girls  !  " 

"  No  ;  they're  our  own  children,"  whispered  Margery. 

"But  that  grand  young  lady,  my  dear?  why,  she's 
fit  for  a  palace." 

"  That's  Mary  of  Magdala,"  said  Margery,  smiling. 
"  She's  now  a  great  saint ;  but  they  say  she  was  awful." 

But,  oh  !  the  pity  of  it,  when  the  performers  disap- 
peared amidst  the  plaudits  of  the  audience  and  the 
rough  criticisms  of  some  poor  creatures,  and  immediately 
reappeared  in  the  penitents'  costume  —  blue  dress  and 
mantilla,  and  high,  white  Norman  cap  —  and  took  their 
places  amongst  the  inmates  again.  Father  Tracey  was 
choking  with  emotion,  as  he  watched  that  young  girl, 
disrobed  of  her  natural  dress  and  clad  in  the  strange 
livery  that  hid,  and  yet  hinted  at,  unspeakable  shame. 
And  she  so  calm,  so  unconcerned,  without  a  blush  at  the 
frightful  transformation,  and  accepting  so  gratefully 
the  rough  congratulations  from  her  sister  penitents,  as 
she  sat  on  the  lowest  bench  and  lifted  up  the  beads  of 
old  Sister  Paul  and  toyed  with  them  like  a  child. 

"  I  tell  you,  my  dear,"  said  Father  Tracey,  "  that  if 
Heaven  is  the  place  for  those  who  become  little  cliildren, 
that  poor  child  will  be  at  home  there." 

And  the  good  old  priest  became  frightened  at  Sister 
Mary  of  Magdala.  He  almost  began  to  think  he  had 
been  mistaken  in  not  taking^  charg-e  of  the  nuns  instead. 
And  when  he  recognized  her  voice  in  the  confessional 
he  got  a  violent  fit  of  coughing  and  turned  away  his 
head  and  pulled  up  his  old  cassock  over  his  knees,  and, 
instead  of  the  long,  fervent  exhortation  he  usually 
addressed  to  his  saints,  with  such  emotion  that  he  set 
the  most  hardened  aflame  with  the  love  of  God,  he  only 
muttered,  with  averted  head  :  — 

"  Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure,  my  dear,  to  be  sure." 


MARY   OF   MAGDALA  371 

Margery  and  he  used  to  have  long  spiritual  confer- 
ences on  this  subject. 

"  Fm  sure  I  don't  know  what  to  do,  my  dear,"  he 
would  say.  "Can  you  help  me?  Isn't  there  a  book 
written  by  a  good,  holy  man,  called  Scaramelli,  or 
something  like  it,  for  the  direction  of  these  holy 
souls  ?  " 

"  There  is,  indeed,  Father.  But,  sure  you  have 
knowledge  and  inspiration  enough  for  these  poor  peni- 
tents." 

"•  Me  ?  I  don't  know  anything,  my  dear.  I  was, 
you  know,  what  they  call  minus  haberis  in  Maynooth." 

"  What's  that,  Father  ?  " 

"  Well,  it's  the  very  opposite  of  what  your  great, 
clever  brother  was." 

Margery  shuddered. 

"  He  was  at  the  liead  of  his  class  ;  I,  at  the  foot  of 
mine.     Why,  I  was  'doctored'  twice." 

"  Doctored  ?     O,  I  am  so  glad  !  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  —  'doctored.'  That  is,  I  was  com- 
pelled twice  to  read  the  same  treatises  for  a  second 
year." 

"  And  wasn't  that  good,  Father  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear  ;  but  it  meant  awful  stupidity. 
Somehow  1  could  not  understand  things.  I  used  to 
look  at  those  books  and  papers  ;  luit  ni}"  head  would 
swim  round  and  round,  and  I  used  to  see  the  words 
without  luiderstanding  what  they  meant.  Wh}',  it  was 
the  wonder  of  the  whole  college  that  they  ordained  me 
at  all." 

"  I  suppose  so,  Father,"  said  Margery,  trying  to  keep 
back  her  tears. 

"It  was,  my  dear.  And  I  suppose  Fd  he  digging 
potatoes  to-day,  which  would  be  my  proper  vocation, 
but  for  old  Dr.  Whitehead.  They  all  agreed  that  I 
should  go.  They  said  Fd  disgrace  the  Churclu  which 
was  (piite  true.  And  the  senior  professor  of  theology 
said  that  I  knew  no  more  about  theolog)^  than  a  cow 
about  a  holiday.     But  poor  Dr.  Whitehead  asked,  could 


372  LUKE   DELMEGE 

I  manage  to  get  up  the  ceremonies  of  the  Mass  ?  and 
they  shook  their  heads.  '  Well,  I'll  teach  him,'  he 
said;  'and  he  must  be  a  priest.'  May  the  Lord  be 
kind  to  him  —  and  —  forgive  him." 

"Well,"  said  Margery,  "and  did  you  learn  them?" 

"  In  a  kind  of  way,  my  dear.  Sometimes  I  do  be 
puzzled  ;  and  I  look  up,  when  I  should  look  down  ; 
and,  at  the  Conference,  the  Bishop  never  asks  me  any- 
thing, lest  I  should  make  a  fool  of  myself." 

"  I'm  afraid  you  want  Scaramelli  badly.  Father.  It 
was  well  for  j^ou  you  didn't  get  charge  of  us." 

"  Ah,  that  was  out  of  the  question,  my  dear.  And 
the  Bishop  saw  it  the  moment  I  hinted  at  the  thing. 
I'd  have  the  all  of  ye  half-cracked  by  this  time." 

"  And  so  you  think  Mary  of  Magdala  is  a  saint  ?  " 

"  Think  ?  I  know  it.  And  suppose  now,  I  should 
misdirect  that  grand  soul,  or  fail  to  lift  it  upwards, 
what  a  frightful  responsibility  !  I'm  thinking  of  ask- 
ing the  Bishop  to  remove  me,  and  —  " 

"  You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Margery,  thor- 
oughly frightened.     "You'll  just  stay  where  you  are." 

"  Perhaps  so,  my  dear.  But  I'll  tell  you  now  what 
you  could  do  for  me.  You  could  read  up  all  about 
St.  Catherine  of  Siena,  and  Blessed  Angela  of  Fo- 
ligno,  and  Mary  Magdalen  de  Pazzi,  and  let  me  know 
what  their  confessors  used  do.  Or,  I'll  tell  you.  If 
you'd  be  so  good  as  to  write  to  your  brother  (he's  a 
very  distinguished  theologian,  you  know),  and  pretend 
nothing,  but  ask  a  few  questions,  which  I  will  put  to 
you  from  time  to  time,  perhaps  —  "  i 

"  The  very  thing,"  said  Margery.  Adding  in  her 
own  mind,  "  'Tis  a  direct  inspiration." 

"  Then,  you  know,  I  could  feel  sure  that  I  was  sup-         \ 
ported  by  sound  Catholic  theology  ;  and  I  couldn't  go 
very  far  astray." 

"  I  will,"  said  Margery.  "  And  so  they  were  going 
to  turn  you  out  of  Maynooth  ?  " 

"So  they  were,  my  dear,  but  for  Dr.  Whitehead." 

"  And  you  would  be  now  digging  potatoes  ?  " 


MARY   OF   MAGDALA  373 

"  Yes,  ray  dear,  in  a  flannel  waistcoat  and  hobnailed 
boots." 

"H'm.  A  decided  improvement,  I  should  say,  on 
your  present  wardrobe.  At  least  they'd  keep  out  the 
rain." 

And  Sister  Mary  of  Magdala  was  quite  unconscious 
that  she  was  exciting  such  interest  ;  but  went  around 
in  her  penitent's  garb,  and  washed  and  scrubbed,  and 
ironed,  and  did  all  kinds  of  menial  offices  for  the  aged 
and  the  sick,  and  took  gratefully  tlieir  awkward  grati- 
tude. 

"  God  bless  you,  alanna  !  "  or,  "God  bless  you,  Mary, 
and  forgive  you,  and  forgive  us  all,  for  all  we  ever  done 
against  His  Holy  and  Blessed  Name  !  " 

And  they  wondered,  poor  souls,  in  their  own  dull 
way,  at  the  wonderful  skill  of  the  Divine  Artist,  wlio 
could  raise  this  spirit  of  sweetness,  this  lily  of  light,  out 
of  the  sordid  and  reeking  refuse  of  the  regretful  past. 

Meanwhile,  Dr.  Wilson  had  advertised  all  over  Eng- 
land fur  the  missing  Barbara  ;  and  had  even  employed 
private  detectives  to  find  out  the  convent  in  which  she 
was  hidden.  A  foolish  thing,  for  if  Barbara  liad  done 
God's  will  in  entering  religion,  as  she  had  said,  there 
was  little  use  in  fio-hting  against  (iod  ;  and,  if  it  were 
not  God's  will,  then  Barbara  would  very  soon  find  her 
way  home.  But  the  Doctor  was  not  well  acquainted 
with  such  things.  So  he  spent  quite  a  little  fortune  in 
the  vain  quest.  He  was  hcljH'd  a  good  deal  in  liis  reso- 
lution by  a  remark  dropped  by  that  excellent  huly,  .Mrs. 
Wenliam,  who,  having  returned  to  Dublin,  had  called 
for  a  (h)uble  purpose  —  to  visit  the  Wilsons  formally, 
and  to  consult  the  Doctor  jjrofessionally.  For,  alas  ! 
that  we  should  have  to  relate  it,  the  beautiful  and  ac- 
complished Mrs.  Wenham,  Circe  and  Siren,  was  but 
mortal  ;  and  the  dread  forerunners  of  death  were  play- 
ing suspiciously  around  that  frail  complexity  of  charms 
which  had  sent  more  than  one  fool  to  destruction. 


. 


374  LUKE   DELMEGE 

Her  visit  to  the  drawing-room  was  short.  The  eter- 
nal plaint  of  the  mother's  heart  was  wearisome.  It  was 
all  Louis  I  Louis  !  and  the  woman  of  the  world,  with 
all  her  contempt  for  the  pretty  little  puppet,  would  just 
prefer  that  he  should  be  allowed  to  sleep  in  peace.  It 
was  monstrous  that  these  ghosts  of  memories,  and  memo- 
ries of  ghosts,  should  be  summoned  up  by  the  heart  of 
a  foolish  mother  at  a  pleasant  morning  call. 

"  It  is  quite  a  seance  of  spiritualists,"  she  complained 
to  her  muff.  "  She'll  ask  me  to  summon  this  little  idiot 
from  Hades." 

'■'■  I  beg  pardon,"  she  said  sweetly  to  the  sorrowing 
mother,  "  does  not  your  religion  afford  you  some  conso- 
lation in  your  bereavement  ?  " 

"  It  does,  of  course,"  said  the  weeper.  "  But  it  can- 
not bring  Louis  back." 

"  But  you  can  pray,  can  you  not,  for  —  what's  this  the 
expression  is  —  for  the  eternal  repose  of  his  soul?" 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  mother.  "  And  I  have  prayed. 
Indeed,  I  have.     But  death  is  death,  and  judgment." 

Mrs.  Wenham  rose  hastily.  Here  were  those  dread- 
ful words  again  —  always  connected  with  these  people. 
Death  !     Judgment  !  and  at  a  morning  call  ! 

She  entered  the  Doctor's  study.  Here  it  was  Bar- 
bara !  Barbara  !  Had  she  seen  her  ?  Did  she  know 
her  ?  Was  there  ever  the  faintest  clew  to  her  where- 
abouts ?  And  the  father's  eyes  pleaded  piteously  with 
the  strange  woman. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  Miss  Wilson  had  called  on  her  at 
a  very  unseasonable  hour,  and  had  appeared  rather 
excited  and  disturbed  in  her  mind.  She  spoke  in  a 
rather  rambling  manner  ;  and  appeared  hardly  able  to 
control  herself.  She  would  not  like  to  say  that  Miss 
Wilson  was  quite  demented  —  but  —  " 

It  was  quite  clear  that  Miss  Wilson  had  not  entered 
a  convent,  or  that  she  would  be  soon  sent  home. 

"  I  thought,"  said  Mrs.  Wenham,  "  that  it  was  the 
highest  ambition  of  Roman  Catholics  to  see  their  chil- 
dren in  religion "?     Now,   I  assure  you,   I  have   often 


MARY   OF   MAGDALA  375' 

thought  that  T  should  so  like  to  be  a  nun.  I  have  seen 
such  pretty  pictures  of  them,  — at  the  hospital,  kneeling 
to  the  cross,  singing  their  hymns  ;  and  tiiey  looked  so 
pretty  —  such  lovely  faces,  turned  upwards  to  the  skies 
—  such  peace,  such  happiness,  to  which  we,  poor  women 
of  the  world,  are  strangers  !  " 

"  Let  us  change  the  subject,"  said  the  Doctor.  "  You 
wished  to  consult  me  ?  " 

Yes.  And  the  consultation  went  on.  And  lo  !  as  a 
result,  the  pretty  nun  faces  vanished,  and  a  grim  death's 
head  appeared,  floating  through  the  eyes  and  in  the 
words  of  that  horrid  Doctor.  And  she  besought  him, 
implored  him  to  reconsider  his  verdict.  So  young,  and 
the  world  so  bright  I 

"  I  regret  to  say,  Mrs.  Wenham,  that  everything  you 
tell  me  seems  to  confirm  my  judgment." 

And  Mrs.  Wenham  wept.  Death  and  Judgment 
seemed  to  follow  this  family  as  footmen. 

The  Canon,  too,  was  deeply  interested.  He  had  writ- 
ten piteous  letters  to  great  ecclesiastics  in  England. 
He  had  always  written  on  his  crested  notepaper  with 
the  family  arms  and  motto,  Sa^is  tache!  and  he  signed 
himself  "Maurice  Canon  Murray."  He  would  have 
given  a  good    deal    to  be  able  to  add  Archdeacon,  or 

Dean,  of  X .     But  that  was  not  to  be,  yet  a  while. 

He  received,  after  some  delay,  very  courteous  replies  ; 
but  there  was  no  news  of  Barbara.  K  she  had  entered 
an  Knglish  convent  it  could  hardly  have  escaped  the 
notice  of  the  authorities.  At  last,  one  day  a  letter  came 
from  the  south  nf  England,  stating  that  a  young  lady, 
answering  in  all  respects  his  description  of  Barbara, 
had  entered  a  branch  of  a  foreign  institution,  lately 
domiciled  in  England  owing  to  the  persecutions  in  Cier- 
many,  but  hinting  a  doubt  that  there  must  be  a  mistake, 
for  this  Order  admitted  as  postulants  only  the  children 
of  noble  or,  at  least,  aristocratic  families.  The  (\inon 
was  indignant,  and  wrote  back  a  dignilied  letter  to  his 
correspondent,  asking,  somewhat  sarcastically,  whether 


376  LUKE  DELMEGE 

he  was  aware  that  her  father  was  a  Dublin  baronet,  and 

her  uncle  Canon  of  X .     The  next  post  brought  an 

apologetic  reply  ;  and  it  assured  the  Canon  that  all 
doubts  were  cleared  up  ;  and  that  it  must  have  been 
his  niece  who  had  entered  the  novitiate  of  the  Dames  de 
Saint  Esprit.  She  had  been  sent  to  Austria  to  complete 
her  two  years'  novitiate. 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  the  Canon,  grandly.  "  And  I 
shall  be  very  much  surprised  if  she  does  not  reach  the 
highest  —  ha  —  distinction  in  her  Order  !  " 

And  fancy  —  an  old  man's  loving  fancy,  swept  him 
even  farther  ;  and  he  would  dilate  at  length  on  the 
present  and  future  prospects  of  his  niece.  And  when 
the  poor  old  people,  who  had  been  recipients  of  Bar- 
bara's charity,  when  she  visited  her  uncle,  asked  him, 
with  the  tender  and  tenacious  gratitude  of  the  poor  : 
"  Wisha,  yer  reverence,  may  I  make  bould  to  ask  you 
where  Miss  Wilson  is,  God  bless  her  ? "  the  Canon 
would  answer  :  "  Yes,  my  poor  woman,  I  am  happy  to 
inform  you  that  my  niece,  your  benefactress,  has  —  ha 
—  entered  religion  —  become  a  nun,  you  know,  in  a 
community  exclusively  reserved  for  the  highest  con- 
tinental families."  And  when  the  poor  would  express 
their  joy  and  surprise  :  "  Wisha,  we  knew  God  would 
always  hav^e  a  hand  in  her,  the  sweet  young  lady  —  " 
the  Canon  would  say  :  "  Yes,  indeed.  Some  day  Miss 
Wilson  will  reach  the  highest  dignities  in  her  Order, 
and  probably  become  its  mitred  Abbess." 

And  "  mitred  Abbess "  became  the  standing  puzzle 
and  enigma  to  the  parish  for  many  months.  When  the 
word  "  mitred  "  came  to  be  understood,  it  caused  grave 
head-shaking  and  heart-trouble. 

"  The  notion  of  a  bishop's  hat  on  a  little  girl  like 
that,"  was  almost  a  scandal.  Father  Cussen  was  con- 
sulted. 

"  Psha  !  "  he  said.  "  Mitred,  indeed  !  'Tis  the  mitre 
he  wants  himself.  And  it  should  be  a  pretty  high  one, 
for  his  head  is  always  in  the  clouds  !  " 

Nevertheless,  the  Canon  was  gratified  ;  and  the  people 


I 


MARY   OF  MAGDALA  377 

conceived  a  larger  idea  of  his  power  and  might,  and  the 
greatness  of  the  family. 

And  even  Dr.  Wilson  was  reconciled  to  the  idea, 
when  he  discovered  that  liis  beloved  child  was  enrolled 
amongst  the  nobility  of  France  and  Austria. 

"  After  all,"  he  said,  "  the  Church  is  a  beneficent 
mother,  and  happily  provides  shelter  for  her  children 
in  every  grade  of  life." 


CHAPTER   XXIX 
A   PARLIAMENTARY   DINNER 

It  was  part  of  the  programme  that  Luke  should  in- 
vite his  brother  priests  to  dine.  He  was  one  of  the  few 
curates  who  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  "  separate  main- 
tenance "  ;  and  the  privilege  entailed  some  responsi- 
bilities, and,  amongst  them,  the  initial  one  of  giving  a 
"house-warming."  He  had  some  nervous  qualms  and 
difficulties  about  it.  His  prim,  cold,  English  manner 
had  not  made  him  a  favourite  with  the  brethren,  whose 
quick,  breezy,  volatile  ways  he  disliked,  and  whose 
attempts  at  easy  familiarity  he  rather  resented.  But, 
he  felt  he  should  come  down  from  the  stilts,  if  he  were 
to  get  on  at  all  in  this  strange  country,  Avhere  every 
one  seemed  to  live  in  a  kind  of  indolent  and  easy  un- 
dress. 

"  I  hope,  my  dear  young  friend,"  said  the  gentle  and 
kind  old  pastor,  in  that  tone  of  urbane  and  deferential 
friendship  which  characterized  him,  "  that  you  will  not 
go  to  any  extremes  in  this  little  entertainment.  Your 
revenue  here  will  be  extremely  limited  ;  and,  in  any 
iease,  it  is  always  well  not  to  be  singular." 

"  O,  no,  sir  !  "  said  Luke.  "  I  shall  attempt  nothing 
beyond  what  is  usual  on  these  occasions.  To  be  very 
candid,  indeed,  I  should  just  as  soon  not  be  obliged  to 
hold  these  entertainments.  I  don't  care  much  for  them  ; 
and  I  have  a  lively  horror  of  a  dining-room  and  all  its 
appliances." 

"  You  know  you  must  command  everything  you  re- 
quire here,"  said  the  old  man.     "  If  you  would  kindly 

378 


A   PARLIAMENTARY   DINNER  379 

send  up  your  servant,  my  housekeeper  will  be  most 
happy  to  send  you  any  glass,  or  table-linen,  or  cutlery 
you  require." 

"  I  am  sure  I'm  most  grateful,  sir,"  said  Luke.  "We 
shall  say  five  o'clock  on  Thursday." 

The  dinner  passed  off  well.  Even  the  stiff  formality 
of  the  host  could  not  subdue  the  vitality  of  his  younger 
guests,  which  effervesced  and  bubbled  over  in  jest,  and 
anecdote,  and  swift,  subtle  repartee.  Nowhere  on  earth 
is  there  such  wit  and  merriment  as  at  a  clerical  dinner 
in  Ireland.  May  it  be  always  so,  in  this  land  of  faith 
and  frolic  ! 

John  was  waiter  ;  and  John  was  gorgeous  in  white 
front  and  swallow-tailed  coat.  This  idea  of  a  waiter 
was  rather  an  innovation,  which  some  were  disposed  to 
resent  ;  and  it  palled  a  little  on  their  spirits,  until  there 
was  a  stumble,  and  a  crash  of  broken  glass  in  the  hall, 
and  the  spell  was  broken.  Luke  flushed  angrily.  John 
was  imperturbable.     He  explained  afterwards  :  — 

'■'■  Where's  the  use  in  talkin'  ?  Sure,  tilings  must  be 
broke." 

It  was  the  calm  philosophy  of  Celtic  fatalism. 

Now,  Luke,  as  he  had  once  explained  before,  had 
made  the  most  determined,  cast-iron  resolution  never, 
under  any  circumstances,  to  be  inveigled  into  a  discus- 
sion on  any  subject,  because,  as  he  explained,  it  is  im- 
possible to  conduct  a  de])ate  on  strictly  parliamentary 
lines  in  Ireland.  'I'his,  of  course,  was  very  chilling  and 
unfriendly  ;  but  he  thought  it  wiser  and  safer.  Alas  ! 
for  human  resolutions  !  What  can  a  man  do,  in  Charyb- 
dis,  but  fling  out  his  arms  for  succour? 

"That  rennnds  me,"  said  a  young  curate,  who  had 
been  classmate  with  I>idve  in  Maynootli,  "of  a  legend 
of  our  college  days,  of  a  student,  who  was  strictly  for- 
bidden to  enter  the  rooms  of  a  professor,  his  uncle. 
He  tried  several  stratagems,  but  in  vain  :  for  Jack  was 
as  'cute  as  a  fox.  Then,  he  struck  on  the  plan  of  drag- 
ging up  the  coal-scuttle,  and  tumbling  over  it,  just  at 
Jack's  door.    And  Jack  should  come  out  to  see  and  help 


380  LUKE   DELMEGE 

the  poor  servant  in  his  emergency.  And  then  —  the 
warm  fire,  and  the  ghiss  of  wine." 

"  I  don't  see  the  application  of  your  anecdote,"  said 
Luke,  who  was  very  much  put  about  by  the  accident  in 
the  halL 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  the  other.  "  I  don't  think  I 
intended  any  application.  But  let  me  see  !  Oh,  yes  ! 
I  really  would  not  have  noticed  that  clever  Ganymede 
were  it  not  for  that  crash  in  the  hall.  Accidents  are 
required  to  develop  genius." 

"It  is  really  interesting,"  said  the  old  pastor,  "to 
behold  how  easily  our  people  fit  into  tiieir  surroundings. 
You  can  turn  an  Irishman  into  anything.  A  skilful 
alchemist,  that  is,  an  able  statesman,  could  take  up  all 
the  waste  material  in  Ireland,  and  turn  it  into  all  beau- 
tiful forms  of  utility  and  loveliness.  I  knew  that  poor 
fellow,"  said  the  old  man,  in  his  kind  way,  "  when  he 
nearly  broke  the  heart  of  the  archdeacon  by  his  inso- 
briety and  untruthfulness.  I  never  thought  that  you 
could  transform  him  so  rapidly." 

The  little  compliment  made  Luke  proud,  and  broke 
his  cast-iron  resolution  into  smithereens.  He  called 
for  more  hot  water  and  coffee,  and  settled  down  to  a 
j)leasant  academical  discussion. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  folding  his  napkin  over  his  knees, 
"  the  Irish  are  a  plastic  race  ;  but  the  mould  in  which 
they  are  newly  cast  should  never  be  allowed  to  run 
cold.  If  it  is  so  suffered,  they  are  stereotyped  forever. 
It  is  a  land  of  cast-iron  conservatism.  You  cannot  break 
away  in  originality  without  becoming  a  monster.  It 
is  the  land  of  the  Pyramids  and  the  Sphinxes,  with  all 
the  newer  races  staring  at  it,  and  giving  it  up  as  a 
puzzle." 

"  It  would  no  longer  be  a  puzzle,"  said  the  young 
priest  above  mentioned,  "  if  we  were  allowed  to  solve  it 
in  our  own  way.  But,  it  has  ever  been  our  misfortune 
that  a  blind  man  is  always  called  upon  to  solve  the 
riddle." 

"  I'm  not  quite  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Luke,  tossing 


I 


A   PARLIAMENTARY   DINNER  381 

his  soutane  over  his  knees,  with  the  old  sic-argumen- 
taris  gesture  ;  "  our  ecclesiastical  department  is  not  so 
much  meddled  with  ;   and  behold  where  we  are  !  " 

"  And  where  are  we  ?  "  said  the  other. 

"  I  should  say  somewhere  in  mediteval  times,"  said 
Luke.  "  Compare  our  ideas  of  man's  fitness  or  unfit- 
ness for  a  certain  position,  with  those  which  obtain  the 
wide  world  over.  In  every  other  department  of  life 
you  ask,  Is  this  man  fit  ?  In  our  department,  you  ask, 
How  long  is  he  on  the  mission  ?  So,  too,  you  never 
judge  a  man's  actuality  by  the  net  amount  of  work  he 
has  done,  or  is  capable  of  doing,  but  by.  What  did  he 
get  ?  The  meaning  of  which  enigma  is,  what  prizes 
did  he  take  in  the  days  of  his  small  clothes  and  his 
seminary  ?  " 

"  You  shouldn't  complain.  Father  Delmege,"  said  an 
old  priest  ;  "  Maynooth  has  left  its  hall-mark  upon  you, 
and  you  cannot  rub  it  off." 

"  Thank  you.  Father,"  said  Luke  ;  "  but  it  is  just  as 
absurd  to  speak  of  a  man  as  a  great  theologian,  because 
he  gained  a  prize  in  theology  thirty  or  forty  years  ago, 
as  to  speak  of  a  man  as  a  great  warrior,  because  he  was 
captain  in  a  successful  snowball  sortie  at  Eton  ;  or  as 
a  great  artist  in  black  and  wliite,  because  he  drew  a 
caricature  of  his  teacher  on  the  blackboard  of  a  country 
school." 

"I  often  heard  that  Eton  won  Waterloo,"  said  the 
other. 

"  One  of  the  world's,  or  history's,  falsehoods,"  said 
Luke.  "  It  was  the  starved  commissariat  of  the  Frenclu 
and  the  treachery  of  Grouchy,  that  lost  Waterloo,  and 
the  well-filled  kettles  of  the  British,  and  the  help  of 
Bliicher,  that  won  it.  It  was  the  victory  of  stupidity 
and  roast  beef  over  genius  and  starvation." 

"  Now,  nonsense,  Delmege  ;  every  one  admits  that  in 
the  career  of  every  great  man  his  early  triumphs  are 
recorded  as  indications  of  his  future." 

"  I  have  not  noticed  it,"  said  Luke,  '*  because  all  the 
great  meu  of  niT/  acquaintance  never  cast  their  heroic 


382  LUKE   DELMEGE 

shadows  in  the  halls  of  a  university  ;  but  this  is  Ireland 
all  out.  You  attempt  to  nail  the  shadows  on  the  grass, 
and  then  believe  them  realities." 

Luke  had.  scored.  It  was  a  Pyrrhic  victory,  and  a 
dangerous  one,  for  it  flushed  him.  His  cast-iron  reso- 
lution was  now  flung  to  the  winds. 

"•  But  to  return,"  he  said.  ''  We  are  just  passing 
through  another  transition  stage,  where  the  new  mould- 
ing of  our  people's  character  is  about  to  take  place. 
Let  us  be  careful  that  the  new  ideals  are  right,  before 
the  genius  of  the  race  is  fixed  forever." 

"  There  are  so  many  artists  at  the  work  now,"  said 
the  young  priest,  ''  that  they  can  hardly  blunder." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Luke.  ''  In  a  '  multi- 
tude of  counsellors  there  is  much  wisdom,'  but  that 
supposes  that  the  counsellors  can  agree  upon  some- 
thing. I  see  nothing  before  us  but  to  accept  the  spirit 
of  the  century,  and  conform  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  ideal." 
This  was  known  to  be  Luke's  pet  hobby  ;  but  he  hac' 
never  formrdated  it  before.  The  whole  table  flared  up 
in  an  angry  flame  of  protest. 

"The  Anglo-Saxon  ideal?  A  civilization  where 
Mammon  is  "god,  and  every  man  sits  with  one  eye  on 
his  ledger  — the  other  on  his  liver  !  " 

"  The  Ano-lo-Saxon  ideal  ?  A  nation  of  dead  souls, 
and  crumbling  bodies  !  " 

"  The  Anglo-Saxon  ideal  ?  "  The  young  priest  be- 
fore mentioned  was  on  his  feet,  gesticulating  furiously, 
his  hoarse,  rasping  voice  drowning  the  angry  protests 
of  the  brethren.  Luke  grew  quite  pale  under  the  com- 
motion he  had  excited. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  you  have  to  face  civilization  for 
good  or  ill,  or  create  a  civilization  of  your  own.  The 
people  are  losing  the  poetry  of  the  past — their  belief 
in  Celtic  superstitions  and  creations.  Can  you  create 
a  new  poetry  for  them  ?  and  can  you  fight,  and  beat 
back  your  invaders,  except  with  their  own  weapons  ?  " 

"  Better  the  whole  race  were  swept  into  the  Atlan- 
tic," said  the  young  priest,    "than  that   they  should 


A   PARLIAMENTARY   DINNER  385 

oomproraise  all  their  traditions  and  their  honour  by 
accepting  the  devil's  code  of  morals.  One  race  after 
another  has  been  annihilated  in  this  Isle  of  Destiny  for 
four  thousand  years.  But  they  passed  away  with  honour 
untarnished.     So  shall  we  !  " 

'•  Oh,  my  dear  Father  !  "  said  Luke,  deprecatingly, 
*'  if  you  are  prepared  to  sit  down  and  accept  the  inevi- 
table, all  right  I  There  is  no  need  for  further  argument. 
Let  us  fold  our  togas  around  us  as  we  fall.  But  if  the 
struggle  is  still  to  continue,  there  is  not  much  use  in 
kite-tlying,  in  the  hope  that  we  are  going  to  call  down 
the  lightnings  of  heaven  on  our  opponents." 

"  1  suppose  'tis  Destiny,"  said  the  young  fire-eater, 
resuming  his  seat.  "  But,  better  be  exterminated  a 
hundred  times  than  turned  into  money-grubbers  and 
beef -eaters." 

"  It's  only  the  cyclical  movement  in  all  history,  no- 
ticed by  all  great  thinkers,  and  formulated  by  Vico  and 
Campanella,"  said  Luke,  now  victorious  and  exultant, 
and  forgetful,  "  the  corsi  and  ricorsi  of  all  human  prog- 
ress ;  and  there  is  one  great  luminous  truth  running 
through  it  all  —  that  he  who  cannot  govern  himself 
must  allow  himself  to  be  governed  by  another ;  and 
that  tlie  world  will  always  be  governed  by  those  who 
are  superior  in  nature." 

It  is  a  little  thing  that  turns  the  Irish  mind  from 
anger  or  despair  to  laughter. 

"Would  you  please  pass  down  the  corsi  and  ricorsi  oi 
that  coffee  and  liot  water  ?  "  said  a  young  wit ;  and  lo  ! 
the  discussion  ended  in  a  roar  of  merriment. 

Just  then  a  sweet,  clear,  girlisli  voice,  just  outside 
the  window,  which  was  raised  this  Avarm,  summer  even- 
ing, sang  softly,  and  witli  great  feeling,  the  lirst  lines 
of  Lady  Dufferin's  pathetic  ballad  :  — 

I'm  sitting  on  the  stile,  Mary,  where  we  sat,  side  by  side. 

It  was  so  sweet  and  mournful,  there  in  that  Irish  vil- 
lage, with  the  golden  sun  streaming  over  the  landscape, 
and  the  air  warmed  and  perfumed  with  the  sweet  odour 


384  LUKE   DELMEGE 

of  the  honeysuckle  that  clambered  around  the  window; 
and  it  seemed  so  appropriate,  that  the  priests  were 
hushed  into  silence.  It  wrapped  in  music  the  whole 
discussion,  which  had  just  terminated.  It  was  the 
eaoine  of  the  Banshee  over  the  fated  race. 

I'm  biddin'  you  a  long  farewell,  my  Mary,  kind  and  true  ! 

But  I'll  not  forget  you,  darlin',  in  the  land  I'm  goin'  to; 

They  say  there's  bread  and  work  for  all,  and  the  sun  shines  always 

there, 
But  I'll  not  forget  old  Ireland,  were  it  fifty  times  as  fair. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  at  the  dinner  table  till  the  singer 
concluded.     It  was  the  infinite  pathos  of  Ireland  ! 

The  girl  came  to  the  open  window,  and  pleaded.  She 
was  a  tall,  slim  young  girl,  dark  as  an  Italian,  the  hood 
of  her  light,  black  shawl  scarcely  concealing  the  black 
curls  that  hung  down  on  her  forehead.  The  plate  went 
round ;  and  she  held  more  silver  that  evening  in  her 
hands  than  she  had  ever  seen  in  her  life  before. 

"  If  Father  Meade  were  here,"  said  Dr.  Keatinge  with 
a  smile,  '•^  he  v/ould  say  it  was  the  ghost  of  Erin  —  the 
wraith  of  a  departed  people." 

"•  I'll  not  forget  you,  darlin',"  soliloquized  the  3^oung 
priest;  "but  they  c?o  forget  you,  darlin';  and  what  is 
more,  they  despise  you.  And  there  isn't  on  earth,  or 
in  the  nether  hell,"  he  said  vehemently,  bringing  his 
hand  down  heavily  on  the  table,  "  a  more  contemptible 
being  than  he,  who,  seduced  by  the  glitter  and  glare  of 
foreign  civilizations,  has  come  to  despise  his  mother- 
land." 

"  Now,  now,  now,  that  song  has  excited  you.  Cole," 
said  his  neighbour. 

"I'm  not  excited,"  he  protested;  "but  I  tell  you, 
'tisn't  English  steel,  but  foreign  gold,  we  fear." 

"Never  mind.  Cole,"  said  another,  "the  corn  and 
ricorsi  will  swing  around  again  in  their  cycles,  and 
Ireland  will  come  uppermost !  " 

"  Yes  !  "  he  hissed,  "  if  she  does  not  forget  her  des- 
tiny." 


! 


A   PARLIAMENTARY   DINNER  385 

"  And  what  might  that  be,  Cole  ? "  shouted  one  or 
two,  laughing  at  his  vehemence. 

"  What  might  that  be  ?  What  ivould  have  been  the 
destiny  of  the  Jeivish  race  if  they  had  not  rejected 
Christ  r' 

"  Delmege,  compose  this  fellow's  nerves,  and  sing 
'The  Muster.'" 

But  no  !  Luke  had  forgotten  "  The  Muster  "  —  he 
couldn't  recall  the  words  —  it  was  many  years  since  he 
sang  it,  etc.     He  sang  :  — 

Oh!  dotli  not  a  meeting  like  this  make  amends? 

"  I  wouldn't  doubt  him,"  said  the  fire-eater.  "  He's 
the  Cauon's  pupil,  and  an  apt  one." 

The  guests  dis])ersed  early;  and  Luke  was  alone  — 
and  unhappy.  What  was  the  reason  that  he  always 
felt  miserable  after  much  contact  with  men  ?  And 
especially,  wlien  he  returned  to  himself  after  a  tem- 
porary dissii)ati(>n  of  thought,  why  M'as  he  always 
angry  with  himself  and  dissatisfied  ?  Every  touch  of 
the  external  world  made  this  sensitive  nature  shrink 
more  closely  into  itself,  except  when  he  had  something 
to  look  up  to  and  to  worshi]).  With  all  his  i)rofessions 
of  practical  wisdom,  he  was  forever  craving  after  an 
ideal  that  was  shy  and  unrevealed. 

As  he  passed  from  the  heated  atmosphere  of  the  din- 
ing-room into  the  cool  garden  that  was  behind  the  house, 
he  heard  the  soft  patter  of  feet  iu  the  kitchen,  aud  a 
low  whistling  sound,  lioth  were  faint  and  muilh^d,  as 
if  with  ail  effort  at  concealment ;  and  then  the  whistling 
broke  out  iuto  ai'ticulate  language  :  — 

(Forte)     "  Welt  the  flure,  Biddv  JMcClure  ! " 
(Anildiilr)    "  Show  them  the  rioht  step.  Mary  McCarthy  I" 
{ Iu)r!issiiiio)    '"Vcrra,  daiioe  to  the  musio.  ye  divils  !" 
(Ailafjio)    '•  At  —  the  — widow  —  McLau" —  an  —  an  —  ghlin's 
pa  —  a  —  a  —  a  —  rty ! " 

Then  the  dancing  ceased. 

"  I'm  too  warrum,"  said  Mary,  "and  I'm  tired  afther 
all  the  cookin'  and  slushin'." 
2c 


386  LUKE   DELMEGE 

"  An  ye  did  it  well,  Mary,"  said  John,  the  musi- 
cian ;  "I  never  saw  a  betther  dinner  at  the  Archday- 
ken's." 

"  Wisha  !  for  the  luv  of  God,  stop  the  '  Arch- 
dayken's,' "  said  Mary,  who  despised  flattery  ;  "  it's 
nothin'  but  '  Archthiyken '  here,  and  'Archdayken' 
there.  Why  didn't  you  sthop  wid  him,  whin  you  were 
there  ?  " 

"  Take  that,  John,"  said  one  of  the  boys,  who  had 
dropped  in,  with  that  easy  familiarity  which  is  common 
to  the  country. 

"I  didn't  mane  any  harrum,"  said  John,  humbly. 
"  But  it  was  a  grand  dinner,  out  an'  out ;  I  heard  the 
priests  say  so." 

"  You'll  have  a  nice  pinny  to  pay  for  all  the  glass  you 
broke,"  said  Mary.  "  The  masther  looked  like  a  jedge 
wid  his  black  cap." 

"'Twasn't  that  made  him  mad,"  said  John,  "but  that 
little  red  priesht  from  Lorrhabeg.  Begor,  he  pitched 
into  the  masther  like  mad." 

"  He  met  his  match,  thin,"  said  Mary.  "  I'd  like  to 
see  wan  of  'em,  excep'  the  parish  priesht,  who  could 
hould  a  candle  to  him." 

"  What  was  it  all  about  ? "  said  one  of  the  neigh- 
bours, unable  to  restrain  his  curiosity. 

"  No  saycrets  out  o'  school.  If  you  tell  this  '  purty 
boy,'  he'll  have  it  in  all  the  public-houses  in  the  parish 
before  Sunday,"  said  Mary,  the  loyal. 

"  Wisha,  'twasn't  much,"  said  John.  "  'Twas  all  the 
ould  story  of  England  and  Ireland.  The  masther  said 
we  must  all  be  English,  or  be  swept  into  the  say.  The 
little  wan  pitched  the  English  to  the  divil,  and  said 
we're  Irish  or  nothin'." 

"  And  who  got  the  best  of  it  ? "  said  the  "  purty 
boy." 

"  Hard  to  say,"  said  John.  "  They  were  all  talkin' 
thegither,  and  jumpin'  up,  like  Jack-in-the-Box,  excep' 
the  quite  ould  parish  priests.  And  thin  that  girl  came, 
and  you'd  think  they  wor  all  in  their  cradles." 


A   PARLIAMENTARY   DINNER  387 

"  Begor,  they're  a  quare  lot,"  said  the  purt}^  boy. 
"  They're  as  like  childre  as  two  paj's.  Get  wan  of  'e"m 
into  a  tearin'  rampage  about  the  dlirink,  or  a  dance,  or 
a  bit  of  coortin'  ;  and  thin  say  a  word  about  the 
Blessed  Vargin,  or  the  ould  land,  and  you  have  him 
quite  as  a  lamb  in  a  minit." 

"  The  English  and  the  landlords  would  have  aisy 
times  but  for  'em,"  said  Mary. 

"  Thry  that  jig  agin,  Mary,"  said  John.  "  I'll  get 
the  concertina." 

"  No,"  said  Mary  ;   "  'tis  too  warrum." 

"  I'm  thinkin',  John,"  said  the  purty  boy,  "of  gettin' 
me  taylor  to  make  a  shuit  for  me,  like  that.  What  'ud 
it  cost?" 

"  More  than  iver  you  see  in  your  life,"  said  John, 
angrily. 

'•But  we  could  get  it  secon'-hand,  like  yoursel',"  said 
the  other. 

"  Stop  that,"  said  Mary,  peremptorily.  She  objected 
to  a  duel.  "  Itemimber  where  ye  are.  Get  the  concer- 
tina, John.     'I'lic  mastlier  won't  mind." 

"  Fun,  ligliting,  antl  praying,"  thouglit  Luke.  "•  The 
Lord  never  intended  tlie  Irish  to  work." 

He  strolled  along  the  village  street,  the  quiet,  calm 
beauty  of  the  evening  stealing  into  his  soul,  and  stiUing 
the  irritation  and  annoyance  of  that  dinner  table.  The 
pur[)le  mountains  in  the  distance  seenu'd  to  contract 
and  expand,  as  the  shadow  or  the  suidight  fell  upon 
them.  The  air  was  heavy  with  the  odours  of  roses 
and  woo(ll)ine,  and  yet  cooled  with  tlie  breezes  tliat 
floated  down  from  the  liills,  over  wliose  sliarp  ridges 
were  iiencilled  darker  lines,  as  you  see  in  tlie  liorizon 
lines  of  tlie  sea.  The  old  men  sat  snnikiiiL!'  ilieir  clav 
})ipes  leisurely.  The  old  women  pondered  anil  mili- 
tated, with  that  air  of  resigned  peace  so  pei-uliar  to  the 
Irish.  A  crowd  of  children  were  lautrliiuLr  and  i^lavinsf 
in  the  main  street,  gambolling  in  circles,  and  singing 
that  folksong,  that  is  common  to  the  children  of  half 
the  globe  :  — 


388  LUKE  DELMEGE 

London  bridge  is  broken  down, 

Grand,  said  the  little  dear : 
London  bridge  is  broken  down : 
Faire  Ladye  ! 

Build  it  up  with  lime  and  sand ! 

Grand,  said  the  little  dear : 

Build  it  up  with  lime  and  sand, 

Faire  Ladye  ! 

On  the  bridge  were  perched  twenty  or  thirty  young 
men,  resting  after  the  day's  toil  ;  and  listening  to  the 
soft  wailing  of  a  flute,  played  by  one  of  their  number. 

Luke  passed  swiftly  through  all.  The  old  people 
arose,  and  courtesied,  the  men  taking  their  pipes  from 
their  mouths.  Luke  said  :  "  How  d'ye  do  ?  "  They 
did  not  understand.  They  were  accustomed  to  some- 
thing different  from  their  kind  old  priests.  "  How  are 
you,  Maurya  ?  How  are  the  pains  ?  "  "  Cauth,  when 
did  you  hear  from  the  little  girl  in  Boston  ?  "  "  The 
murphies  are  gettin'  dry,  Pat."  "To  be  sure,  man; 
send  over  for  the  saddle  in  the  morning,  and  keep 
it  as  long  as  you  like."  "  That's  the  finest  clutch  of 
chickens  I  saw  this  year,"  etc.,  etc. 

"  He's  a  fine  man,  God  bless  him,"  said  the  women, 
as  they  resumed  their  seats.     "  But  he's  mighty  proud." 

The  children  ceased  from  play,  as  he  approached,  and 
ran  to  their  mothers.  The  boys  leaped  from  the  bridge, 
and  saluted.  The  player  hid  his  flute.  They  all  could 
tell  where  the  curate  lived;  but  oh!  he  was  a  thousand 
miles  away  from  their  hearts.  He  passed  out  into  the 
country  under  the  thick  twilight  of  the  beeches.  The 
privet  hedges  threw  out  their  white  blossoms,  heavy 
with  the  odours  which  the  bees  loved  ;  the  sweet  wood- 
bine twined  in  and  out  of  the  hawthorn  and  brier  ;  and 
the  white  clover,  stamped  by  the  feet  of  the  voluptuous 
kine,  wafted  its  sweetness  to  the  passer-by.  Far 
away  some  girls  were  singing  an  old  Irish  air  ;  and,  as 
Luke  stopped  to  listen,  and  watched  the  blue  smoke 
curling  upwards  in  a  straight  line  from  the  cottages,  he 
heard  the  flute  again  wailing  out  another  Irish  thren- 


\ 


A   PARLIAMENTARY   DINNER  389 

ody,  The  Coulin.  Then,  the  voices  of  the  children 
rose,  clear  aud  shrill  again:  — 

London  bridge  is  broken  down, 

Grand,  said  the  little  dear: 
London  bridge  is  broken  down: 
Faire  Ladye ! 

The  problem  of  the  inexorable  present  ;  and  the  proph- 
ecy of  the  inevitable  future  strangely  blended  again. 

He  went  into  the  village  church  again,  on  returning. 
There  was  a  deeper  twilight  here  than  without.  He 
knelt  to  make  his  evening  visit,  and  say  his  Rosary, 
Here  and  there  were  scattered  some  of  the  pious 
villagers.  You  heard  only  their  whispered  prayers, 
and  the  rattle  of  their  beads.  At  the  altar  rails,  bowed 
in  reverential  love,  was  the  old  pastor,  his  head  slightly 
inclined  to  one  side.     Luke  envied  him. 

'*  I  wish  I  were  old,"  he  said,  "•  and  done  with  these 
life's  enigmas.  These  old  men  seem  to  cast  untroubled 
glances  into  eternity." 

He  stopped  a  moment  at  his  cottage  gate,  before  retir- 
ing for  tiie  night,  and  looked  down  upon  the  street,  the 
neat  cottages,  outlined  against  the  dark,  deep  bank  of 
the  thick  foliage  behind.     It  was  very  peaceful. 

'*"  A  wise  man  would  make  uj)  his  mind  to  be  hapi)y 
here," he  said.  "  But  will  it  last?  And  what  can  1  do 
to  preserve  and  extend  it  ?  "  The  problem  and  puzzle 
again, 

'"Anything  that  man  can  do,  Fll  do,"  he  said  vehe- 
mently, "  to  solve  this  dread  enigma,  and  save  this 
devoted  people." 

The  following  morning  two  letters  lay  on  his  break- 
fast-table. One  was  from  Amiel  Lefevril.  It  was  one 
of  many.     And  it  was  the  old  cant. 

"  Ilnmanity  is  incarnate  in  all  great  men  in  a  snpremo  degree  ; 
the  true  Shfchninh,  says  Chrvsostoin.  is  man.  Every  ohilil  of 
Humanity  is  a  transfigured  type  of  Humanity.  We  are  immortal 
in  the  immortality  of  the  Race.  Seek  the  Divine  in  Man,  and 
help  its  development." 


390  LUKE   DELMEGE 

"  There  is  a  hidden  element  of  truth  in  the  jargon," 
said  Luke.     "  Wonder  we  were  never  told  it." 

And  Luke  forgot  that  he  had  taken  First  of  First 
in  Maynooth,  in  Dogmatic  Theology;  and  that  he  had 
held  with  vigour  and  success  that  "  the  revelation  of  God 
in  Man,  through  the  lowly  figure  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth, 
had  a  far-reaching  object,  apart  from  the  immediate 
purpose  of  the  Licarnation  ;  and  that  was,  to  confound 
the  pride  of  mortals  in  the  perfectibility  of  the  race." 

"  If  we  could  only  teach  these  poor  people,"  he  said, 
"  that  their  lofty  ambition  :  Seek  ye  the  God  in  man,, 
was  once,  and  only  once,  realized,  all  would  be  well. 
But,  then,  they  should  become  little  children  again ; 
and  Nicoderaus  said  that  was  impossible." 

The  other  letter  was  from  Margery,  asking  for  light 
and  advice  on  a  critical  question,  about  which  Father 
Tracey,  who  said  he  had  no  idea  of  theology  or  mysti- 
cism, was  much  concerned.  It  would  appear  that  one 
of  their  penitents.  Sister  Mary  of  Magdala,  who  had 
been  a  great  sinner,  was  now  developing  extraordinary 
sanctity;  and  Father  Tracey  craved  light  on  one  or 
two  knotty  points. 

"  Dear  Luke  "  [the  letter  ran],  "  don't  throw  this  aside  in 
petulance  or  disgust.  I  know,  and  if  I  didn't,  Father  Tracey 
would  convince  me,  that  you  are  a  profound  theologian.  But 
somehow  I  feel,  too,  that  these  things  are  revealed  to  little  chil- 
dren. Luke  dear,  be  a  little  child,  as  well  as  a  profound  thinker ; 
and  let  me  know  all  you  think  on  this  most  important  matter. 
You  have  no  idea  of  the  peace  of  mind  it  will  give  us  all,  especially 
dear  Father  Tracey. 

"  Mother  is  not  too  well.     Won't  you  go  see  her?" 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Luke ;  "  is  there  any  use  in  talk- 
ing to  nuns,  at  all  ?  " 

He  wrote  his  little  sister  to  say,  that  the  veriest  tyro 
in  theology  knew  that  these  poor  penitent  girls  were 
either  subject  very  frequently  to  delusions,  especially 
in  the  way  of  superior  sanctity ;  or,  were  unfortunately 
prone  to  simulation  of  virtue  for  the  purposes  of  decep- 
tion.    He  had  no  doubt,  whatever,  that  the  case  sub- 


II 


A   PARLIAMENTARY    DINNER  391 

mitted  to  him  came  under  one  of  these  two  heads ;  and 
he  would  advise  liis  sister  not  to  get  involved  in  any- 
way in  what  would  probably  prove  an  imposture,  wliich 
might  also  eventuate  in  a  grave  scandal.  Father  Tracey, 
he  understood,  was  an  excellent  man ;  but  rather  prone 
to  take  unwise  views  about  spiritual  manifestations,  on 
which  the  Church  always  looked  with  doubt  and  sus- 
picion. 

Clearly,  Luke  had  become  very  practical.  A  good 
many  years  had  gone  by  since  he  vowed  his  pilgrimage 
to  the  city  to  kiss  this  old  man's  feet. 

He  took  up  his  sister's  letter  again  :  and  read  it  in  a 
puzzled  manner. 

"  It  is  downright  positivism,"  he  declared.  "  Margery, 
too,  sees  the  Divine  in  Man  —  this  time,  in  a  wretched 
penitent.  Imagine  —  Amiel  Lefevril  and  Sister  Eulalie 
arriving  at  the  same  conclusion  from  opposite  poles  ot 
thought." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

CROSS   CURRENTS 

He  congratulated  Mary  warmly  on  the  success  of 
her  dinner.  He  had  seen  nothing  like  it,  since  he  had 
left  England.     Mary  blushed  with  pleasure. 

"  I  did  not  think  it  was  possible  to  procure  such  fowl 
at  this  time  of  the  year,"  said  Luke. 

"  Oh,  the  neighbours  were  good,  your  reverence," 
said  Mary. 

"  The  neighbours  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  Mrs.  Mahony  sint  the  chickens  ; 
and  the  ducks  came  from  Mrs.  Cleary's  yard  ;  and  —  " 

"  You  surprise  me,"  said  Luke.  '•'  How  did  these 
people  send  them  ?     You  purchased  them,  of  course  ?  " 

"Indeed'n  I  didn't,"  said  Mary.  "The  laste  they 
may  do  is  to  help  their  priests,  who  are  workin'  night 
an'  day  for  thim." 

"  But,  my  good  girl,  it  was  highly  improper  to  solicit 
from  these  poor  people  —  " 

"•  I  didn't  solicit,"  said  Mary,  whose  temper  was 
rising. 

''  Then  how  could  they  know  that  I  had  a  dinner  in 
contemplation  ?  "  asked  the  bewildered  Luke. 

"  Know  ? "  said  Mary,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 
"  They  know  more'n  that.  They  know  what's  inside'n 
you." 

Luke  was  silent  for  a  few  seconds. 

"  Was  there  much  glass  broken  ?  " 

"•  There  was,  thin,"  said  Mary.  "  But  it  wasn't 
ours." 

392 


CROSS    CURRENTS  393 

"  Oh,  the  parish  priest's  ?  That  makes  it  all  the 
more  necessary  that  we  should  restore  it." 

"  Ah  !  he  won't  miss  it,"  said  Mary.  "  Sure,  he  has 
double  your  jues." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no,"  cried  Luke,  amazed  at  this  liberal 
theology.  "  He  has  been  very  kind ;  and  we  must 
return  every  article  he  has  lent  us." 

"There'll  be  a  nice  hole  in  your  quarter's  wages," 
said  Mar}^  to  John  in  the  kitchen.  "  You'll  have  to 
pay  for  all  the  glass  you  broke." 

"  How  could  I  help  it  ?  "  said  John.  "  Sure,  every 
one  knows  that  things  must  be  broke." 

"You'll  pay  for  it,"  said  jVIary.  "And  they  were 
the  parish  priest's  ;  and  worth  about  half-a-crown  a 
glass." 

"  Begor,  tliin,  if  I  do,  I'll  have  it  out  of  him,"  said 
John. 

"Not  while  I'm  here,"  said  Mary.  "If  you  put  a 
wet  finger  on  anything  while  I'm  here,  you'll  suffer  for 
it." 

Luke  visited  his  pastor. 

"  I  must  congratulate  you,"  said  the  kind  old  man, 
"on  that  beautiful  dinner  last  evening.  It  was  a  rare 
pleasure." 

"Only  for  tliat  unhappy  discussion,"  said  Luke. 
"I  really  must  forego  everything  of  that  kind  in  future. 
It  disturbs  me  too  nuicli." 

"Much  better  than  foolish  talking  about  each  other," 
said  the  old  man.  "  Youth  is  the  age  for  problems  : 
old  ajje  is  for  the  one  g^reat  certainty." 

"  You  must  give  me  a  few  days'  indulgence,  saui 
Luke,  "  to  re{)lace  that  glass  which  was  broken.  I 
hope  to  have  it  all  from  the  city  in  a  week." 

"  Now,  never  mind,  my  dear  boy  !  I'm  disposed  to 
make  the  little  sacrifice  cheerfully,  you  liave  made  such 
a  convert  of  that  poor  boy.  You  must  lend  him  to  me 
in  future,  when  1  give  our  little  parties  here." 


394 


LUKE   DELMEGE 


Luke  was  not  quite  so  enthusiastic  about  his  convert. 
Complaints  were  coming  in  from  the  people  ;  and  little 
bills   appeared    on   his    breakfast   table    every    second 


morning-. 


To  wan  pare  of  chickens,  kilt  by  the  mare  —  5  /  — 

Mairy  Haigerty. 

To  five  bags  of  otes  for  the  mare,  £2 — 7 — 6. 

John  Rafferty. 

To  wan  dashboord,  kicked  to  pieces  by  the  mare  — 15/  — 

Daniel  Regan,  Carpenter. 

To  wan  sheep,  run  over  by  your  car,  with   one  leg  broke, 
comin'  home  from  the  fare  at  Kildinan  — £1 — 10 — 0. 

James  Daly. 

"  This  won't  do,"  said  Luke.  "  It  means  bankruptcy. 
Come  here,"  he  said  to  John  ;  "  read  these.  What  does 
it  mean  ?  " 

"Mane?"  said  John.  "It  manes  that  they're  the 
graytest  liards  and  rogues  unhung.  I  admit  the  oats  ; 
but  all  the  others  are  chayting." 

"  These  people  would  hardly  send  in  bills  without 
reason,"  said  Luke. 

"They  wouldn't  only  they  think  you're  innocent- 
like," said  John. 

"  Well,  it  must  be  stopped,"  said  Luke.  "  You're 
giving  the  mare  too  much  oats.     She's  getting  restive." 

"  Annythin'  you  plaze,  yer  reverence,"  said  John. 
'-'•  But  don't  blame  me  if  she  breaks  down  on  the 
road." 

"  You  seem  to  have  taken  whiskey  this  morning  ?  I 
thought  you  had  the  pledge  ?  " 

"  Me  —  whiskey?"  said  the  startled  John  in  horror. 
"Devil  —  ahem — not  a  drop  since  I  took  the  pledge 
from  the  parish  priest,  so  help  —  " 

"  Sh — sh,"  said  Luke,  horrified.  "  I  may  be  mis- 
taken. Our  senses  deceive  us.  But  there's  an  unmis- 
takable odour  of  spirits  around  the  room." 

"  Maybe  the  decanther  is  broke,"  said  John,  looking 
with  great  anxiety  towards  the  sideboard. 


CROSS   CURRENTS  395 

"Hardly,"  said  Luke.  "Now,  be  a  man,  and  confess 
decently  that  you  have  broken  the  pledge." 

"  Would  it  break  the  pledge,"  said  John,  with  the 
tone  of  a  casuist  propounding  a  difficult  problem,  "  to 
smell  sperrits,  or  to  draw  them  in  wid  your  bret?" 

"Well,  hardly,  I  think,"  said  Luke.  "But  I  can 
scarcely  conceive  how  such  remote  contact  could  leave 
behind  such  permanent  results." 

"  Well,  yer  reverence,"  said  John,  with  the  air  of  a 
man  unjustly  accused,  and  who  is  playing  the  trump 
card  for  acquittal,  "  this  is  what  happened,  and  you'll 
see  Fm  innicent.  I  wint  down  this  mornin'  to  Mrs. 
Dennehy's  wid  a  message  for  Mary  —  that's  the  house- 
keeper —  " 

Luke  nodded. 

"And  just  as  I  intered  the  dure,  what  wor  they  doin', 
d'ye  think  •.^" 

Luke  declined  to  conjecture. 

"  Watherin'  the  whiskey,"  said  John  ;  "  watherin'  the 
whiskey."     He  spoke  as  of  a  sacrilege. 

"'What  the  d are  ye  up  to?'  sez  I.     '  Thry  is 

it  wake  enough,'  sez  Mrs.  Dennehy.  'I  won't,'  sez  1  ; 
'  I've  my  ])ledge  an'  I'll  keep  it,  wid  God's  blessin'.' 
'Thry  it,'  sez  she  agin.  '  Sure,  you  needn't  swalley  it  ; 
and  ye  have  betther  taste,'  sez  she,  ^  than  whin  you  wor 
drinkin'.'  She  was  fillin'  up  a  glass,  as  she  was  spakin". 
'  Stop  that  ! '  sez  I,  '  stop  that  !  '  '  'Tis  only  a  sample,' 
sez  she.  '  Sure,  ye  needn't  take  but  as  much  as  ye  like.' 
So  I  smelU'd  the  glass.  ''Tis  strong  still,'  sez  I.  'So 
I  thought,'  sez  she.  '  It  wants  more  wathering.' 
'  'Twouid  spile  it,'  sez  L  '  Taste  and  see  how  wake 
it  is,'  sez  she.  '  I  tell  you,  'oman,'  sez  I,  '  I  can't.'  '  Did 
you  iver  see  such  a  fool  ?  '  sez  she.  '  Sure,  I'm  not  axin' 
ye  to  dhrink  it,  but  to  taste  it.'  Wid  that  I  tuk  a  sup  in 
my  mout',  when  the  young  blagard  began  to  laugh  at 
me.  And  begor,  I  got  mad,  and  was  goin'  to  say  some- 
thin',  whin  I  forgot  all  about  the  whiskey,  and  down  it 
wint  the  wrong  passage.  An"  I  coughed  and  coughed, 
as  if  I  was  in  a  decline.    Thin,  Dennehy  had  to  slap  me 


396  '  LUKE   DELMEGE 

on  the  back  ;  but  begor,  'twas  no  use.  I  was  coughin' 
and  coughin',  till  I  was  black  in  the  face.  '  Begor,'  sez 
she,  '  you'll  have  to  swalley  the  dhrop  now,  whether  you 
like  it  or  no  ;  or  else  we'll  have  a  corp  in  the  house.' 
So  begor,  I  had  to  take  the  rest  of  it  ;  but  "twas  in  leather. 
That's  all,  yer  reverence,  the  same  as  if  I'd  kissed  the 
book." 

"  Well,  you'd  better  go  and  renew  the  pledge,"  said 
Luke.     "  I  won't  keep  you  on  other  conditions." 

"  Sure  I  often  hard  yer  reverence  sayin'  from  the 
althar,  that  a  tiling  is  no  harrum,  if  you  can't  help  it  !  " 
said  the  bewildered  John. 

"  That'll  do,"  said  Luke.  "  Get  away,  and  bring  me 
a  note  from  the  parish  priest." 

So  Luke  was  not  quite  so  enthusiastic  as  the  good 
pastor  ;   and  he  changed  the  subject. 

"  Some  of  these  poor  people,"  he  said,  "  have  been 
asking  me  to  assume  the  presidency  of  the  local  branch 
of  the  League.  Do  you  see  any  objection,  sir,  or  do  you 
deem  it  prudent  ?  " 

"  There  certainly  is  no  objection,"  said  the  old  man, 
"  but  it  means  trouble,  and  even  disappointment  to  you." 

"  I  shouldn't  mind  the  trouble,"  said  Luke,  "  but  I 
fear  the  disappointment.  I  cannot  make  out  why  my 
good  old  pastor,  Canon  Murray,  is  able  to  turn  his 
parish  into  a  little  Paraguay,  but  all  other  efforts  seem 
to  be  abortive." 

"  It's  the  dread  of  the  superior  powers,  which  are 
quite  out  of  sympathy  with  the  people,  that  paralyzes 
everything,"  said  the  old  man. 

''  Well,  if  it  does  nothing  else  but  to  make  them  hold 
up  their  heads  and  assume  an  air  of  manly  independence, 
it  is  worth  trying." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  the  old  man,  resignedly. 

So  the  Rev.  Luke  Delmege  became  President  of  the 
local  branch  of  the  League.  His  first  speech  was  sensa- 
tional. 

"I  want  you  distinctly  to  understand,"  he  said,  "that 
if  I  am  to  remain  your  president,  it  must  be  on  condition 


CROSS   CURRENTS  397 

that  your  constitutions  are  strictly  observed.  I  shall 
allow  no  backsliding-.  (Hear,  hear.^  Nor  shall  I  have 
any  distinction  of  persons.  (Hear,  hear.')  If  the  rules 
are  violated,  you'll  hear  from  nie.  Now,  I  understand 
that  some  gentleman  has  a  resolution  to  propose.  You 
will  please  mark  its  phraseology,  so  that  no  one  can  say 
afterwards  that  lie  did  not  understand  its  significance." 
Tlie  resolution  was  :  — 

"  Resolced :  That  we,  the  members  of  the  Rossmore  Branch  of 
tlie  Land  League,  hereby  solemnly  bind  ourselves  not  to  take  off 
our  hats  to  any  man  in  future,  except  the  priest." 

There  was  a  long  and  heated  discussion.  They  all 
knew  at  whom  it  was  directed  —  a  local  magnate,  fierce 
and  fiery,  and  military,  with  a  great  tawny  mustaclie, 
that  he  tied  behind  his  neck  sometimes,  like  the  mighty 
warriors  of  Jena  and  Austerlitz.  He  was  by  no  means 
popular,  but  very  much  dreaded,  and  he  loved  saluta- 
tions in  the  market-place.  Indeed,  it  was  whispered 
that  sometimes,  when  he  had  English  visitors  at  the 
Lodge,  he  used  dis[)ense  sundry  sixpences  to  the  gamins 
of  the  village  to  secure  their  fealty. 

Sundry  amendments  were  proposed,  debated,  and  re- 
jected. One  demanded  that  the  clause,  "  or  when  pass- 
ing the  chapel  door,"'  be  inserted.  Another  insisted 
that  the  words  ''  or  our  sweethearts  "should  he  the  final 
clause.  Another  thought  that  "  cap  "  should  be  put  in 
after  "  hat,"  "  because,"  he  said,  ''  there  were  fellows 
mane  enougli  to  lave  their  hats  at  home  in  order  to 
escape  the  pinalty."  However,  it  was  finally  decided 
that  the  original  resolution  should  stand.  Then  buke 
arose. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  that  resolution  is  after  my  own 
heart.  1  am  a  thorough  democrat  in  the  sense  that  I 
hold  that  every  man  is  just  what  he  is  in  the  sight  of 
God,  and  nothing  more.      And  I  tell  vou.  that  until  vou 

''ill 

conceive  this  loftv  opinion  of  yourselves,  and  understand 
the  necessity  of  the  self-respect  that  accompanies  it. 
there  is  no  chance  that  our  generation  can  work  out  the 


398  LUKE   DELMEGE 

liberties  of  Ireland.  We  want  men,  not  pieces  of  putty- 
in  the  shape  of  men  —  "  Much  more  he  told  them,  as 
they  wondered  and  were  glad.  And  he  read  a  page  or 
two  of  Carlyle,  and  wound  up  with  the  declaration, 
"that  the  true  Shecldnah  —  the  revelation  of  God  to  the 
world  —  is  man  !  " 

This  evoked  tremendous  cheering,  and  Luke  floated 
on  the  blissful  tide  of  popularity. 

"  Yerra,  that's  the  man  we  want." 

"That's  the  way  to  talk  to  'em.  Begor,  now  we'll 
see  who's  who  !  " 

"  Afther  all,  'tis  these  quiet  min  have  the  go  in  'em. 
Faith,  he'll  make  'em  quake  !  " 

"  The  ould  Gineral  will  be  a  sight  on  Sunday.  He'll 
want  a  pound  in  sixpences  to  bribe  the  young  blagards 
to  shaloot  him." 

There  were  some  other  trifling  matters,  however,  where 
Luke  was  not  quite  so  completely  in  touch  with  his  ad- 
mirers. His  proposal  to  bring  down  an  organizer,  or 
teacher,  in  the  shape  of  a  young  lady  from  Dublin,  who 
would  instruct  the  farmers'  wives  how  to  prepare  poul- 
try for  market,  was  met  with  a  kind  of  playful  scorn. 
It  was  unintelligible.  Luke  explained  ;  and  told  them 
a  good  deal  about  the  anatomy  of  fowls,  the  various 
chemical  elements  in  food,  and  the  carnal  desires  of  the 
English,  who  wanted  fat  fowl  for  good  money.  It  was 
no  use.  The  idea  of  importing  a  city  girl  to  teach 
farmers'  wives  how  to  raise  chickens  was  too  absurd. 
And  when  the  good  women  heard  it,  there  was  great 
hilarity.  And  many  and  pungent  were  the  jokes  that 
echoed  around  the  hearths  in  many  a  peasant's  cabin 
during  these  days.  Yet  Luke  persevered.  He  had  a 
mission,  and  was  determined  to  fulfil  it.  He  returned 
to  the  subject  again  and  again  ;  showed  how  many  thou- 
sand chickens  were  imported  into  England  from  Nor- 
mandy and  the  Channel  Islands  year  after  year  ;  counted 
up  the  millions  of  eggs  that  were  used  in  one  biscuit 
factory  in  England  ;  and  dilated  on  the  certainty  of 
opening  up  a  market  for  fruit  and  vegetables  in  London, 


I 


CROSS   CURRENTS  399 

and  the  thousands  of  pounds  that  might  be  made  from 
strawberries  ah)ne.  They  only  shrugged  their  shoul- 
ders, laughed,  and  turned  it  into  a  joke.  Then  Luke 
saw  there  was  no  use  in  appealing  to  the  cupidity  of 
this  people.     Some  other  chord  must  be  touched. 

His  sermons,  too,  for  similar  reasons  were  a  failure. 
Luke  disdained  appealing  to  the  passions  or  sentiments 
of  the  people.  He  had  read  somewhere  that  the  Greek 
equivalent  for  preacher  is  an  interpreter  or  expounder 
—  thence  a  player,  or  actor.  And,  with  his  high  ideas 
of  humanity,  and  his  reluctance  to  gain  an  unfair  victory, 
he  reasoned,  argued,  but  disdained  using  the  least  word 
or  gesture  that  might  affect  the  feelings  of  the  people  at 
the  expense  of  reason.  His  choice  of  subjects,  too,  was 
original.  He  spoke  of  justice,  temperance,  punctuality, 
foresight  —  the  great  natural  virtues  which  must  be  the 
foundation  of  the  supernatural  superstructure.  Alas  ! 
what  could  these  poor  people,  thirsting  for  the  waters  of 
life,  as  plants  thirst  for  the  evening  shower,  what  could 
they  make  of  such  reasoning  and  philosophy  ? 

"  Begor,  he  must  be  very  fond  of  the  money.  He's 
always  talkin'  about  it.  Post  offices  and  savings  banks, 
an'  intherest  I  Why  doesn't  he  spake  to  us  of  the  Sacred 
Heart,  or  our  Holy  Mother,  or  say  somethin'  to  rise  us, 
and  help  us  over  the  week  ?  " 

"  Wisha,  indeed,  Cauth,  'tis  a  change  from  ould  times. 
The  ould  prieshts  used  to  tell  us  :  Nevermind  !  God  is 
good,  and  He  said  He  would.  Trust  in  Him.  And  h^ok 
at  the  Blessed  and  Holy  Family  1  Didn't  know,  whin 
they  had  their  brekfus,  whei'e  they'd  get  their  supper  ; 
nor,  whin  (hey  had  their  supper,  where  they'd  get  their 
brekfus.  But  now,  tis  all  money,  money,  money." 
"  I  suppose  he  has  a  lot  of  it,  ^Iaurya  ?  "" 
•'They  say  he  have.  But  he's  the  quare  man.  He 
thinks  nothin"  of  givin'  a  half-crown  or  a  shillin'  to  a 
poor  man,  but  begor,  if  you  put  your  nose  inside  liis  gate 
to  look  at  a  tlower  or  a  head  of  cabl)age.  he'd  ate  you. 
Ijook  at  that  poor  angashore,  Kate  Mahoney.  In  the 
ould  times,  she'd  always  a  sate  in  the  priest's  chimley- 


} 


400  LUKE  DELMEGE 

corner  ;  and  whin  the  dinner  wos  goin'  on,  she'd  stick 
her  fist  in  the  pot,  and  take  a  pratie,  and  ate  it ;  or  per- 
haps, pick  a  bit  of  the  chicken,  or  rub  the  pratie  agin 
the  bacon.  Pilhilu  I  whin  this  man  hard  it,  he  got  into 
a  tearin'  passion.  Poor  Kit  will  niver  see  the  inside  of 
that  kitchen  agin.  But  he  gives  her  a  shillin'  a  week 
all  the  same." 

"And  sure,  they  say  he  was  goin'  to  dismiss  tliat  poor 
boy  he  has  —  and  a  hard  job  it  is  —  because  he  caught 
him  takin'  out  a  han'ful  of  oats  in  his  two  pockets  to 
give  the  poor  widda  Maloney  for  her  little  chickens." 

"  'Tis  thrue,  I  believe.  And  sure,  what  have  he  but 
what  the  people  give  him  ;  and  sure,  what  they  give  him 
is  their  own." 

"  I  suppose  he  belongs  to  a  high-up  family  intirely  ?  " 

"  Wisha,  hard  to  say.  Nobody  knows  who's  who,  now- 
adays. But,  if  he's  anything  to  the  Delmeges  of  Lisna- 
lee,  he's  be  a  cousin  of  me  own  —  " 

"  You  wouldn't  be  afther  tellin'  me,  Cauth  ?  " 

"  I  would,  indeed.  But  I  wouldn't  purtend  it  to  him 
for  the  wurruld.  I  don't  want  bit,  bite,  or  sup  of  him, 
thank  God.     If  we're  poor,  we  can  be  dacent." 

The  eventful  Sunday  came  at  last,  which  was  to  wit- 
ness the  triumph  of  the  democracy  —  the  first  assertion 
of  manly  independence  which  the  people  of  Rossmore 
were  called  upon  to  make.  There  was  great  exultation 
in  the  minds  of  the  strong  and  virile  —  the  glamour  of 
battle  and  victory  ;  and  corresponding  depression  in  the 
hearts  of  the  weak  and  the  wavering.  For  the  "  Gin- 
eral"  was  a  great  power.  A  faultless  disciplinarian,  he 
had  been  cordially  disliked  in  the  army.  He  now  brought 
into  civil  life  the  iron  discipline  of  the  profession.  He, 
too,  was  a  beautiful,  polished,  merciless  machine.  He 
sought  to  make  all  his  subjects  like  himself.  He  took 
credit  of  having  made  Rossmore  what  it  was  —  an  Eng- 
lish village  planted  in  the  midst  of  an  Irish  population. 
And  he  drove  through  the  one  street  of  the  village  with 
great  pride,  when  he  showed  his  English  visitors  what 
he  had  effected.     And  the  people  hated  him.     He  was 


CROSS   CURRENTS  401 

a  callous,  unfeeling  autocrat,  who  evicted  remorselessly, 
if  everything  was  not  pipe-clayed ;  and  sent  his  ahirmed 
subjects  to  hell,  if  a  hen  walked  across  the  tiled  and 
sanded  floor.  And  what  a  doleful  place  an  Irish  village 
would  be  without  the  morning  reveille  of  a  dozen  chan- 
ticleers ! 

The  proposer  and  seconder  of  the  famous  resolution 
had  posted  sentinels  all  along  the  road  through  which 
the  "  Gineral "  had  to  pass  to  church.  Now,  he  always 
timed  that  triumphant  march,  so  as  to  meet  the  great 
bulk  of  the  villagers  as  they  returned  from  ]\Iass  ;  and 
he  always  drove  in  a  very  high  trap,  so  that  the  eyes  of 
his  subjects  should  be  upturned  towards  him.  He  got 
a  little  start  of  surprise,  when  the  first  batch  of  rebels 
passed  by,  and  laughed,  almost  hysterically,  at  some  par- 
ticularly good  story.  They  were  so  engrossed,  that  tliey 
never  even  saw  the  "  Gineral."  He  turned  to  his  daugh- 
ter, Dora,  who  was  with  him,  and  said  significantly  — 

"  There's  something  up  !  " 

Batch  after  batch  came  on,  talking,  laughing.  They 
seemed  to  scan  the  entire  horizon,  except  the  particular 
arc  that  was  cut  by  the  "  GineraFs  "  hat.  He  got  furi- 
ous, and  although  he  was  going  to  church,  probably 
to  hear  a  gospel  of  peace,  he  dashed,  and  dashed,  and 
dashed  between  his  teeth  at  these  rascally  rebels.  He 
saw  the  mighty  fa])ric  of  liis  despotism  toppling  to  its 
fall.  The  sentinels  rejoiced.  It  was  the  great  renas- 
cence of  the  new  spirit  that  was  just  then  stirring  the 
dead  clods  of  Irish  life.  They  could  not  forbear  smil- 
ing, as  group  passed  after  group,  and  drove  their  hands 
deep  into  their  pockets,  and  glued  them  there,  lest  the 
force  of  habit  should  prove  traitorous  to  tlic  great  prin- 
ciple at  stake.  The  "•Gineral"  raged  and  grew  pale, 
lashed  his  horse  until  he  threw  him  into  a  gallop,  then 
reined  him  suddenly  and  flung  him  on  his  hind  legs. 
He  was  a  beaten  and  baffled  man.  Just  then,  woman's 
wit  came  to  the  rescue.  His  daughter  quickly  divined 
the  nature  of  the  conspiracy ;  and  taking  the  reins 
quickly  from  her  father's  hands,  she  drew  the  horse 
2d 


402  LUKE   DELMEGE 

and  trap  over  against  the  furthest  wall,  so  that  all  the 
people  should  pass  on  her  side.  Then,  bending  down, 
and  fixing  her  brown  eyes  on  a  little  group,  she  said, 
with  her  sweetest  smile  :  — 

"  Good  morning,  Pat !  Good  morning,  Darby  !  Glad 
to  see  you  so  well,  Jem  !  " 

There  was  a  moment  of  bewilderment  and  horror. 
Then  Irish  chivalry,  that  is  always  losing  Irish  battles, 
conquered  Irish  patriotism.  They  took  their  hands 
from  their  pockets,  lifted  their  hats,  and  said  with 
shamed  faces :  — 

"  Good  morning.  Miss  Dora  !  " 

The  "  Gineral  "  lifted  his  hat  courteously.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  was  ever  guilty  of  that  politeness  to 
his  serfs,  whose  very  bedrooms  he  always  entered  and 
examined  with  that  hat  glued  to  his  head.  But  the 
occasion  was  critical.  The  battle  was  won.  Every 
succeeding  group  now  followed  the  example ;  and  Dora 
smiled  and  saluted  and  caressed  them,  while  the  sentinels 
raged  and  thundered,  and  formed  dire  projects  of  sum- 
mary justice  and  revenge. 

A  meeting  of  the  League  was  promptly  called  at  three 
o'clock.  Luke  was  wild  with  anger.  The  one  thing 
that  galled  him  most  painfully  was  this  dread  servility. 
He  believed  that  the  first  step  to  Irish  independence  was 
the  creation  of  a  new  manhood,  self-respecting,  self-re- 
liant ;  reverent,  yet  independent.  This  day  he  broke 
utterly  through  the  crust  of  quiet,  polished  English 
mannerism,  and  poured  out  a  lava  torrent  of  Celtic  elo- 
quence. His  audience  grew  white  and  trembled  under 
such  a  sudden  and  unexpected  display.  They  thought 
they  could  laugh  it  off.  It  was  growing  serious.  Some- 
thing should  be  done. 

"Is  your  reverence  finished?"  said  one  of  the  delin- 
quents. 

"Yes,"  said  Luke;  "for  this  occasion,"  he  added 
significantly. 

"  Would  the  secretary  be  plazed  to  read  that  resolu- 
tion agin  ?  " 


I 


CROSS   CURRENTS  403 

The  secretary  did,  with  great  solemnity. 

"  I  submit,  your  reverence,"  said  the  chief  culprit, 
"  that  none  of  us  who  have  been  arraigned  before  this 
tribunal  is  guilty.  We  saluted  Miss  Saybright,  not  the 
Gineral,  and  the  resolution  says  nothin'  about  ladies." 

"  That's  a  contemptible  and  miserable  subterfuge," 
said  Luke,  angrily.  And  there  was  a  roar  of  indigna- 
tion through  the  hall. 

"  You  know  right  well,"  said  Luke,  "that  this  was  a 
ruse  ;  and,  like  your  countrymen  always,  you  were  led 
into  the  trap." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,  yer  reverence,"  said  another 
criminal.  "  Would  ye  be  plazed  to  tell  us  what  ye'd  do 
yourself  in  the  circumstances  ?  " 

"  What  I'd  do  ?  "  echoed  Luke. 

"  Yes,  yer  reverence,  what  'ud  you  do,  if  you  were 
saluted  by  a  lady  in  the  public  street  ?  " 

Luke  flushed,  grew  pale,  stammered. 

"That's  not  the  question,"  he  said. 

"  Oh  !  but  it  is  the  question,"  said  his  tormentor. 
"  If  you  wor  goin'  home  from  ]Mass  on  Sunday,  and  if 
Miss  Saybright  said  '  Good  mornin',  Father  Delmege,' 
what  'ud  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  should  return  the  salute,"  said  Luke,  in 
dismay. 

"  That's  all  we  did,"  said  the  victor,  looking  around 
triumphantl}-. 

And  Luke  had  to  admit  in  his  own  mind,  as  the  meet- 
ing broke  up,  that  this  race  must  lose  tlieir  chivalry  and 
become  brutalized  before  they  shall  ever  attain  freedom 
in  these  days  of  savage  force.  But  tlien,  is  freedom 
worth  the  sacrifice  ?  Here  again  is  the  enigma,  the 
problem  of  the  race. 

During  the  following  week  the  weatlier  continued 
warm,  and  one  sultry  afternoon,  when  Luke  was  away 
on  a  sick-call,  Mary  escaped  from  the  heat  of  her  kitchen 
and  sat  near  the  open  window  in  one  of  the  upper 
rooms.  It  was  very  cool  and  pleasant,  and  the  wood- 
bine, witli  all  the  beautiful  familiarity  of  Nature,  was 


404  LUKE  DELMEGE 

pushing  its  scented  blossoms  over  the  boxes  of  migno- 
nette that  filled  the  window-sill.  Everything  tempted 
to  a  reverie ;  and  Mary  began  to  dream,  to  dream  of 
one  of  those  little  diamond-paned  cottages  down  there 
in  the  village,  with  its  roses  and  honeysuckle,  and  she 
dreamed  it  was  her  own,  and  there  was  a  lovely  fire- 
place, painted  brick-colour,  and  shining  pots  and  pans, 
and  a  tiled  floor,  and  —  at  noon  a  shadow  flung  across 
the  sunshine,  and  —  from  a  corner,  out  from  a  mass  of 
pink  embroidery,  came  a  tiny  voice,  and  she  saw  the 
blinking  blue  eyes  and  the  tossed,  helpless  hands ;  and 
then  she  woke  up  to  see  the  garden  gate  open  and  the 
"  Gineral  "  coolly  riding  up  the  narrow,  gravelled  walk. 

"  Bad  —  to  ye,"  said  Mary,  now  thoroughly  awake  to 
see  the  evil  genius  of  her  dream. 

The  General  rode  up  on  his  gray  charger,  and  his 
head  was  on  the  level  with  the  window  where  Mary 
was  sitting,  with  folded  arms  and  all  the  self-possession 
of  a  Vere  de  Vere. 

"  Good-day  !  "  said  the  General,  trying  to  control  his 
horse. 

"  Good-day  !  "  said  Mary,  without  stirring. 

"  Is  the  Rev.  Mr.  Delmege  at  home  ?  " 

"  He  isn't,"  said  Mary.  "  An'  I'm  thinkin'  he  won't 
be  plazed   to    see    his    flower-beds    trampled  when   he 


comes  " 


"  Will  he  return  soon  ?  "  asked  the  General.  f 

"  He  might,  and  he  mightn't,"  said  Mary. 

"  Would  you  kindly  tell  him,"  said  the  General,  "  that 
General  Sebright  called  ?  " 

"Gineral  what?"  said  Mary,  struck  with  sudden 
deafness. 

"•  General  Sebright,"  echoed  the  visitor.  "  Stop,  I 
think  I'll  leave  a  card." 

"  Oh,  ye  needn't  take  the  throuble,"  said  Mary, 
grandly.  "  He  has  plinty  of  thim,  himself,  in  his 
dhrawing-roora. " 

The  General  put  back  the  rejected  card,  and  stared 
hopelessly  at  this  apparition. 


I 


CROSS   CURRENTS  405 

"  Perhaps  ye'd  be  afther  tellin'  me  your  business 
with  the  priest?"  said  Mary. 

"  Oh  !  it  was  merely  a  call  of  courtesy,"  said  the 
General.     "  Good-day  !  " 

"  Good-bye,  and  good-luck,"  said  Mary  ;  and  then, 
sotto  voce,  "  and  that's  not  what  I  mane,  me  ould  exter- 
minator !  " 

For  Mary  was  a  red-hot  little  rebel,  like  most  of  her 
country-women.  She  too  had  her  idols  and  ideals. 
Amongst  the  former  were  Robert  Emmet  and  St.  An- 
thony of  Padua,  whose  pictures  graced  her  little  bed- 
room, just  under  the  great  hierarchy  of  the  Incarnation. 
Amongst  the  latter,  neither  rank,  nor  title,  nor  Mam- 
mon had  a  place.  True  as  the  needle  to  the  pole  are 
the  instincts  of  her  class  and  race.  May  no  doctrinaires 
or  self-elected  prophets  ever  succeed  in  making  such  as 
this  poor  girl  swerve  one  inch  from  their  simple  princi- 
ples, which  are  the  highest  philosophy  of  existence  ! 

At  dinner  she  told  Luke  of  the  visit. 

"  'Tis  a  wondher  he  never  called  before,"  she  added. 
"  Pm  thinkin'  he  got  a  lesson  on  Sunday,  tho*  the  stag- 
eens  renaged." 

Now,  Luke  was  in  another  dilemma.  Should  he 
return  that  call  or  not?  He  knew  perfectly  well  that 
that  visit  was  purely  diplomatic.  The  (ieneral  had 
allowed  months  to  elapse,  since  Luke's  advent  io  the 
parish,  and  he  had  never  shown  that  courtesy  before. 
Well,  then  ?  Meet  diplomacy  with  diplomacy.  Luke 
determined  that  lie  would  return  that  visit.  P>ut  what 
construction  wovdd  be  put  on  his  action  by  his  parish- 
ioners ?  How  would  they  view  this  alliance  with  their 
deadly  enemy  ?  He  saw  all  the  possible  consequences  : 
but  he  dcs[»ised  consequences.  The  question  is,  A\']iat 
is  right,  and  what  is  wrong?  Yes!  he  Avould  visit  at 
the  Lodge. 

He  did,  ami  was  received  with  a  certain  kind  of 
courteous  homage.  He  lingered  there  more  than  an 
hour  over  the  teacups.  No  wonder.  It  was  Ayles- 
burgh  again  I     The  beautiful  drawing-room,  hung  with 


406  LUKE  DELMEGE 

such  dainty  pictures ;  the  soft  heavy  hangings  and 
portieres,  that  deadened  all  sound,  and  made  a  dusk  of 
colour  in  the  room  ;  the  large  vases,  filled  with  early 
chrysanthemums  of  every  size  and  hue;  the  grand 
piano,  covered  over  with  costly  furs,  the  wood  fire  blaz- 
ing merrily  in  the  grate  —  ah,  yes  !  it  was  the  grace, 
the  light  and  beauty  of  civilization  once  more ;  and 
Luke,  with  all  his  fine  tastes,  seemed  to  be  wrapped  in 
a  dream  of  sweetness  and  luxury  again.  And  Luke 
theorized,  and  made  sundry  complaints  and  suggestions, 
which  were  very  flattering.  Why  could  not  the  Irish 
gentry  do  what  their  brethren  were  doing  the  wide 
world  over  ?  Why  could  they  not  come  down  to  the 
level  of  the  proletariat,  and  by  a  little  zeal  and  self- 
denial,  introduce  the  sweetness  and  light  of  the  higher 
life  ?  Here,  to  his  mind,  was  the  radical  difference 
between  England  and  Ireland  —  that  in  the  former 
country  there  was  a  perfect  link  between  the  classes, 
the  nobility  and  gentry  being  gently  associated  with 
the  labouring  classes  through  the  medium  of  the  clergy- 
man and  his  family ;  whilst  here,  in  Ireland,  there  was 
an  unspanned  gulf  between  them,  to  their  common  det- 
riment and  disadvantage.  The  General  and  his  lady 
and  Dora  Sebright  listened  with  sympathy,  and  even 
enthusiasm.  It  was  a  happy  idea  !  The  very  inter- 
pretation of  their  own  thoughts.  And  Mr.  Delmege 
really  wished  that  they  should  enter  into  the  cordial 
and  intimate  relations  with  the  people  he  had  so  ad- 
mirably expressed  ?  Unquestionably  !  Well,  then, 
they  were  most  grateful  for  the  suggestion  ;  and  would 
promptly  act  upon  it.  And  Luke,  as  he  passed  down 
the  avenue  that  wound  through  thicket  and  shrubbery, 
felt  that  he  had  gone  far  towards  settling  forever  the 
eternal  and  insoluble  problem. 

In  less  than  a  month  he  had  to  confess  to  an  uneasy 
and  undefinable  feeling  that  something  was  wrong. 
His  remarks  at  the  League  meetings  were  received 
coldly  ;  and  he  was  greeted  with  soured  silence  on  the 
streets.      The  good  old  pastor,  in  the  most  gentle  man- 


CROSS   CURRENTS  407 

ner,  hinted  at  attempts  at  proselytism,  which  he  heard 
had  been  made.  It  had  been  reported  to  him  that  cer- 
tain kidies,  on  their  visitation  at  the  cottages,  and  nnder 
pretence  of  introducing  a  finer  tcstlietical  taste  among 
tlie  vilhigers,  had  tried  to  remove  the  time-honoured 
portraits  of  patriots  and  saints,  and  replace  them  with 
good  loyal  pictures  from  tlie  Ciraphic.  At  home,  Mary 
had  hushed  her  merry  songs  ;  and,  alas  !  did  slam  the 
door  twice  or  thrice  violently.  Altogether,  Luke  felt 
between  Scylla  and  Charybdis,  the  cross  currents  and 
pitiless  vortices  of  daily  life. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 
GREEK   MEETS   GREEK 

Mrs.  Delmege  lay  upon  her  deatli-bed.  The  physi- 
cians had  been  called  in,  and  had  shaken  their  heads. 
"•  This  is  Mors,''  said  one  to  another.  And  those  around 
the  poor  patient  understood.    And  she  also  understood. 

"  Than'  God,"  she  said.  "  He  has  given  me  a  long 
and  a  happy  life ;  and  now  He  calls  nie  to  Himself. 
Welcome  be  His  Holy  Will  !  But,  I'm  sorry  for  Mike. 
He'll  be  lonesome.  But  I'm  glad  'tisn't  I  am  over  his 
coffin." 

Luke  came  over  to  Lisnalee.  When  he  entered  his 
mother's  room,  and  asked,  with  a  faltering  voice,  how 
she  was,  she  only  took  his  hand,  his  priestly  hand,  and 
kissed  it  passionately.  Then  she  spoke  of  the  King  of 
Terrors  with  such  disdain,  that  he  hid  his  head,  and 
was  ashamed. 

••'  What  should  I  be  afraid  of  ?  "  she  said.  "  Sure, 
'tis  as  natheral  to  die  as  to  live  ;  and  what  is  it  but 
goin'  to  God?  Sure,  I  have  had  all  I  wanted  in  this 
world.  Me  daughter  in  her  convent ;  and  me  son," 
here  she  kissed  Luke's  hand  again,  "  at  the  althar  of 
God  ;   what  more  would  any  poor  woman  want '? " 

"■  Ay,  I  mind  the  time,"  she  continued,  after  a  pause, 
"  wlien  you,  Father  Luke,  wor  only  a  weeshy  baby  in 
me  arms  ;  and  sich  a  rogue  as  j'ou  wor,  too.  Father 
Dimpsey,  that  Avas  here  before  Father  Pat,  God  be 
good  to  liira  !  and  to  all  our  good  priests  I  used  have 
the  greatest  fun  wid  you.  And  wan  day,  when  you 
caught  his  big,  bony  finger  in  your  little  weeshy  fin- 
gers, and  wouldn't   let  him  go,  he    said  :    '  Mrs.  Del 

408 


i 


GREEK   MEETS   GREEK  409 

mege,  we'll  make  a  bishop  of  this  fellow?'  'I'd  be 
satisfied,'  sez  I,  '  if  the  Lord  would  only  make  him  a 
priest.'  And  sure,  I  got  me  wish,  and  what  more  could 
inother's  heart  desire  ?  " 

"  You'll  recover,  mother,"  said  Luke,  weeping,  "  and 
we'll  have  many  a  pleasant  day  again  at  Lisnalee." 

"No,"  she  said  ;  "the  Death  is  on  me.  And  how 
many  Masses  now.  Father  Luke,  will  you  say  for  me, 
whin  I'm  gone  ?  " 

"  That  depends  on  other  obligations,"  said  Luke  ; 
"but  you  may  be  sure,  mother,  that  up  to  the  day  of 
my  own  death,  I  shall  never  say  a  Mass,  without  re- 
membering you." 

"At  the  Miminto  of  the  Deadf''  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  Luke. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  The  instinctive  refinement 
of  the  Irish  peasant,  that  deterred  from  touching  on  a 
delicate  subject,  and  the  deep,  reverential  fear  of  the 
priestly  character,  held  the  mother  silent.  Then  her 
great  love  bore  down  the  barrier. 

"  An'  how  are  ye  goin'  on  wid  these  new  parishion- 
ers ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  very  well,  indeed,"  said  Luke,  airily. 

"  The  people  are  good,"  she  said  ;  "  but  they're  jeal- 
ous-like of  tlieir  priests.  They  worship  the  ground  ye 
walks  on  ;  but  they  want  the  little  word,  and  the 
'  Good-morrow  !  Good  luck  ! '  they're  used  to.  I  hard 
some  of  tlicm  say,  over  there  where  ye  had  the  little 
throuble  some  time  ago,  that  they'd  die  for  you.  But 
they  have  their  little  ways,  and  they  must  be  humoured." 

"  Has  the  Canon  called  ?  "  asked  Luke,  changing  the 
sul)ject  abruptly. 

"  Over  and  over  again,  God  bless  him  I  "  she  replied. 
"  It  was  only  3esterday  morning  he  said  Mass  there  on 
that  table  :  and  you'd  think  he  was  a  'uman,  he  was  so 
gintle  and  nice." 

"And  Father  Cussen  ?  " 

"  He's  here  every  day,  and  sometimes  twice  a  day, 
poor  man  —  " 


no  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  And  Father  Meade  and  Father  Martin  come  up 
often,"  said  Lizzie,  who  was  in  and  out  of  the  sick-room 
with  her  baby  in  her  arms. 

"  And  sure  poor  Father  Pat  shouhi  come  all  the  way 
from  the  other  ind  of  the  diocese  to  see  his  old  friend. 
'  Good  right  I  have,'  sez  he,  as  if  I  ever  did  annythin' 
for  the  good,  holy  priest." 

"  Fm  very  glad,  indeed,"  said  Luke,  as  Lizzie  now 
stopped  the  colloquy  by  putting  her  little  baby  beside 
her  mother  in  the  bed.  And  there  they  lay,  the  one 
commencing  its  little  pilgrimage  through  this  weary 
world,  the  other  ending  hers  ;  and  both  in  the  hands 
of  the  All-Father. 

The  Canon  looked  more  aged  than  ever  to  Luke's 
eyes.  His  tall  form  was  slightly  stooped,  although  he 
strove  to  move  erect  as  ever,  and  the  pallor  of  age  was 
deepening  on  a  face  fringed  with  hair  that  seemed 
whiter  than  ever.  And,  somehow,  a  gentle  resignation 
seemed  to  take  the  place  of  the  old  affectation,  as  if  he, 
too,  having  tried  everj^thing  in  an  attractive  world,  had 
found  all  things  evanescent  and  shadowy  in  the  light 
of  the  one  reality.  He  asked  Luke  at  once,  had  he 
heard  of  Barbara?  Her  fate  seemed  to  be  the  one 
thing  that  still  made  life  interesting.  Luke  had  heard 
nothing. 

"  It  makes  but  little  difference,"  said  the  Canon.  "  It 
is  quite  clear  she  is  quite  safe  in  the  shelter  of  some 
convent ;  and  by  degrees,  by  degrees,  she  will  reach 
her  proper  station  —  " 

"  It  is  really  surprising  that  she  has  not  written  to 
you,  sir,"  said  Luke.  "The  black  pall  that  is  thrown 
over  a  young  novice  at  her  profession  symbolizes  death 
to  the  world.  But,  there  is  no  order  so  rigid  as  to  for- 
bid absolutely  correspondence  with  relatives." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  the  Canon.  "  Perhaps  the  family 
honour  —  shall  I  say,  pride  —  withholds  her.  When 
she  has  reached  her  legitimate  station,  she  will  write." 

"  I  confess,"  said  Luke,  "  I  am  become  quite  indiffer- 
ent to  this  question  of   honorary  preferments.     They 


I 


GREEK   MEETS   GREEK  411 

seem  to  be  scattered  over  the  heads  of  mortals,  as  if  by 
chance." 

"  Quite  true,  my  young  friend,"  said  the  Canon. 
"  And  as  an  exemplification  of  what  you  say,  I  have 
just  had  a  letter  informing  me,  that  that  young  clergy- 
man who,  you  may  remember,  was  placed  in  a  seminary 
in  a  position  which  you  sliould  have  rightl}*  occupied, 
has  actually  been  advanced  to  the  Chapter  of  the  Dio- 
cese, as  if  the  honorary  degree,  lately  conferred  upon 
him,  was  not  sufficient  recognition  of  his  services." 

Luke  was  stunned.     He  had  not  lieard  of  this. 

"  Why,  he  didn't  get  an  Atque  ^  even  in  college,"  he 
was  about  to  say,  when  an  interior  voice  shouted  per- 
emptorily :  Silence  !  For  silence  alone  is  wortliy  of 
thee  ! 

But  the  wound  was  made,  and  festered.  And  it  was 
with  a  troubled  and  abstracted  mind  he  entered  the 
library  at  Seaview,  where  Father  iNIartin  Hughes  and 
Father  Cussen  were  before  him.  Tlie  latter  was  rolling 
a  ball  in  and  out  under  the  great  library  table,  uncU^r 
which  Tiny  and  Tony,  now  full  grown,  were  screaming 
and  scrambling  for  the  prize.  When  Luke  was  an- 
nounced the  fun  ceased,  and  the  children  rushed  from 
the  room. 

After  the  first  greetings  and  sympathetic  inquiries 
about  his  mother,  the  conversation  between  Father 
Martin  and  Luke  turned  on  general  topics.  Father 
Cussen — one  of  those  restless,  impatient  spirits  tliat 
must  be  forever  moving — strode  up  and  down  the  long 
room,  now  clutching  at  a  book  and  examining  tlie  title, 
then  putting  it  back  impatiently,  all  the  time  tossing 
and  twisting  his  watch-chain,  as  if  eager  to  break  it 
into  its  se])arate  links.  Was  it  George  Eliot  who  spoke 
al)Out  the  inevitable  convergence  of  lives,  apparently' 
distant  as  the  poles  ;  and  of  the  lines  of  human  thought, 
shifted  and  changed  forever  by  influences  that  seemed 
to  be  far  remote  from  each  other  and  from  their  objects  ? 
It  is  inevitable  that  two  lines  not  quite  parallel  must 

1  The  lowest  distinction. 


412  LUKE  DELMEGE 

meet,  if  pushed  far  enough  into  space  ;  it  is  inevitable 
that  the  Russian  Bear  shall  hug  the  British  Lion  in  the 
passes  of  the  Himalayas  ;  and  it  was  inevitable  that  Luke 
Delmege  and  Henry  Cussen  should  meet  and  thresh 
out  the  mighty  problem  for  which  each  had  his  own 
solution.  Father  Martin  felt,  too,  that  the  inevitable 
had  come,  and  he  strove  by  gentle  words  and  kindly 
stratagems  to  make  the  shock  of  the  collision  as  harm- 
less as  possible. 

"  Mother  couldn't   forbear,"   said  Luke,  innocently, 

"  a  little  lecture  about  that  unhappy  business  at . 

She  cannot  see,  poor  soul,  that  we  have  duties  towards 
our  people  less  pleasant  than  necessary." 

"  And  so  Father  Pat  came  over,"  said  Martin  Hughes, 
trying  to  throw  Luke  off  the  track.  "  He  has  given  me 
up  since  poor  Father  Tim  went  to  his  reward." 

"Of  course,"  said  Luke,  "any  man  can  live  a  good, 
easy,  comfortable  life  by  doing  nothing.  Then  no  one 
can  find  fault ;  but  a  man  cannot  do  his  duty  in  Ireland 
and  remain  popular." 

"  These  are  not  the  ethics  of  Lisnalee,"  said  Father 
Martin.  "  Every  priest  is  beloved  there,  because  they 
know  but  one  test  —  does  he  love  the  people  ?  " 

"  There  is  love  and  love,"  said  Luke.  "  There  is 
the  maudlin  love  of  a  foolish  mother  ;  and  the  wise 
love  of  a  prudent  father.  And  the  first  has  been  ours 
from  time  immemorial.  The  world  tells  us  it  is  time 
to  change." 

"  The  world  !  What  world  ?  "  said  Father  Cussen, 
hastily  turning  round. 

"  The  world  of  progress  and  civilization,"  said  Luke, 
calmly. 

"  Pah  !  "  said  Henry  Cussen.  "  The  world  that  we 
are  colonizing  and  civilizing  dares  to  dictate  to  us." 

"  My  dear  Father,"  said  Luke,  "  these  are  purely 
insular  ideas.  If  we  do  not  climb  to  the  best  seats  in 
the  chariot  of  modern  progress,  we  shall  be  crushed 
under  its  wheels." 

"Of  what  does  your  modern  progress  exactly  con- 


GREEK   MEETS   GREEK  413 

sist  ?  "  said  Father  Cussen,  now  coming  over  and  facing 
his  antagonist.  "  We  are  forever  hearing  of  it  ;  but  we 
don't  see  it." 

"  It  is  a  strange  thing,"  said  Luke,  in  his  old  crush- 
ing style,  "  to  ask  a  definition  of  what  is  so  visible  and 
palpable.  Progress  is  the  onward  and  invincible 
march  of  humanity  to  the  ultimate  goal  of  the  race." 

"  And  what  might  that  be  ?  " 

"What  might  that  be?  Simply  the  perfect  happi- 
ness of  the  individual  in  the  perfection  of  the  race." 

"Then  why  do  we  interfere  with  the  perfect  happi- 
ness of  the  savage  ;  and  compel  him  with  gunpowder 
and  dynamite  to  be  as  miserable  as  ourselves  ?  " 

"  Ay  !  But  that's  mere  sensual  happiness.  We  are 
educating  the  savage  to  the  higher  ideal." 

"And  succeeding?" 

"To  be  sure  we  are." 

"  And  you  want  to  educate  our  Irish  people  to  a 
higher  ideal  ?  " 

"Certainly." 

"  Tell  me,  can  you  conceive,  even  with  your  experi- 
ences of  the  English  aristocracy,  a  higher  life  than  that 
of  your  good  mother,  now  closing  in  a  death  that  the 
highest  philosopher  might  envy  ?  " 

"Hers  is  an  exceptional  case,"  said  Luke,  faintly. 
"Indeed,  I'm  always  Avondering  how  the  Canon  has 
been  able  to  raise  the  standard  of  living  here  ;  and 
everywhere  else  our  efforts  seemed  to  be  doomed  to 
failure." 

"  The  standard  of  living  ?  "  echoed  Father  Cussen. 
contemptuously.  "  That  appears  to  be  the  one  idea  of 
your  modern  progress,  the  worship  of  the  Body,  called 
otherwise  the  religion  of  Humanity." 

"It  is  the  spirit  of  tlie  Church  in  our  century," 
said  Luke,  "  that  we  should  keep  abreast  of  modern 
progress." 

""Yes.  But  what  is  modern  progress?"  said  Father 
Cussen.  "  Do  you  mean  the  circus  chariot,  daubed  all 
over  with  the  abominations  of  hell  in  red  and  gold 


414  LUKE   DELMEGE 

figures,  and  the  devil  liolding  tlie  reins  ;  or  do  you 
mean  the  safer  veliicle,  if  slower,  that  moves  to  eter- 
nity  ?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  your  figurative  language,"  said 
Luke,  impatiently.  "  I  say  that  humanity  has  a  claim 
on  the  Church  ;  that  the  Church  admits  it  ;  and  that, 
therefore,  she  is  in  perfect  sympathy  with  every  ele- 
ment that  makes  for  the  betterment  of  the  people." 

'■'  Precisely.  But  what  is  the  betterment  of  the 
people  ?  If  3'ou  mean  an  improvement  in  their  social 
condition,  accompanied  by  a  corresponding  improve- 
ment, morally  and  intellectually  :  concedo  ;  if  you  merely 
mean  the  acquisition  of  wealth  with  its  accompanying 
vices  and  vulgarity:   nego.^'' 

"  But  why  should  wealth  mean  vice  and  vulgarity  ?  " 
said  Luke,  bewildei'cd. 

"  Because  Mammon  is  an  essentially  vulgar  deity," 
said  Father  Cussen  ;  "  as  vulgar  as  Bacchus,  and  as  dis- 
reputable as  Aphrodite,  and  as  insatiable  as  Moloch. 
Because  no  wealthy  nation  was  ever  characterized  by 
education  and  refinement,  but  by  brutality  and  sensu- 
ality. Witness  Babylon  and  Rome,  not  to  speak  of 
modern  empires  that  are  rushing  onwards  to  similar 
destruction.  And  what  is  true  of  empires  is  true  of 
individuals  ;  and  your  modern  wealth,  ill-got,  ill-placed, 
and  ill-managed,  is  simply  begetting  on  the  one  hand  a 
generation  of  bloated  revellers,  and  on  the  other  a  gen- 
eration of  blaspheming  and  homicidal  starvelings.  And 
if  you  think  that  the  Church  of  Christ  is  going  to  be 
bundled  in,  as  a  second-class  passenger,  in  this  chariot 
of  destruction,  with  the  devil  holding  the  ribbons,  I 
think  you  are  much  mistaken." 

"The  Church  can  never  be  indifferent  to  the  interests 
of  humanity,"  said  Luke,  faintly.  "  Her  role  in  the 
coming  century  will  be  essentially  humanitarian  and 
philanthropic." 

"  Quite  so,  as  it  always  has  been.  But  with  her  own 
leading  lights  to  eternity,  not  as  a  blind  bureau  of  the 
State." 


I 


GREEK   MEETS   GREEK  415 

"  It  seems  to  me  you  are  both  saying  the  same  thing 
in  different  hmguage,"  said  Father  Martin,  meekly. 

"Not  by  any  means,"  replied  Father  Cussen.  "  We 
are  as  far  asunder  as  the  poles.  Delmege  argues  for 
time  :  I,  for  eternity  ;  he,  for  the  body  :  I,  for  the 
soul  ;  he,  for  the  real  only :  I,  for  the  real  and  the 
ideal.  In  object  and  methods  we  are  essentially  distinct. 
But  there's  no  good  in  arguing  in  a  circle.  Take  the 
concrete." 

"  Certainl}'.  Select  your  types,  and  judge  what  is 
progressive,  and  wliat  retrogressive." 

"  '  I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  that  word  ! '  Fll  take  my 
types,  the  lowest  and  the  highest  according  to  your 
estimates,  the  Neapolitan  lazzarone  and  the  great  Brit- 
ish workman.     Will  these  do  ?  " 

"  Precisely,"  said  Luke.  "  You  cannot  find  better 
specimens  of  inertia  on  the  one  hand,  and  push  on  the 
other.  Tlie  gods  have  given  thee  into  my  hands, 
Cussen  !  " 

"  Now,"  continued  Father  Cussen,  "  let  me  see  !  ]\Iy 
picturesque  Southern  goes  out  in  the  morning  after  a 
breakfast  of  dry  bread  and  black  coffee,  and  stretches 
himself  luxuriously  on  the  parapet  of  the  quay-wall 
that  circles  the  bay  of  enchantment.  Mind  !  He  is 
picturesque.  He  is  a  handsome  gipsy,  clad  in  rags,  but 
with  all  the  glory  of  colour.  He  comes  in  to  a  humble 
dinner,  and,  after  a  siesta,  he  does  some  trifling  work 
for  a  few  bajocchi  ;  plays  witli  liis  semi-nude  but  always 
picturesque  babies  ;  strolls  down  to  the  quay  again  ; 
indulges  in  some  light,  winged  sarcasm  on  the  Britisli 
tourist;  and  after  a  supper  of  maccaroni  and  sour 
wine,  he  takes  part  in  an  improvised  concert  (ui  the 
sands,  and  serenades  the  stars.  Is  the  pirturc  cor- 
rect ?  " 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Luke.  '"I  cannot  imagine  a  more 
wortldess  being,  a  more  soulless  scamp." 

"Not  soulless!  I  didn't  say  that.  This  man  wor- 
ships God  in  liis  own  way ;  and  womanhiuxl,  througli 
his  loving  and  beloved  Madonna.      And  Italia  I      Italia  .' 


416  LUKE   DELMEGE  f' 

his  goddess  and  his  queen  !     Now  for  the  British  work- 
man." 

"  Go  ahead !  "  said  Luke.     "  You  are  sinking  deeper         0 
in  the  mire." 

"  Well,  my  model  of  progress  and  enlightenment  is 
very  unpicturesque.  He  is  clad  in  coal-dust,  and  —  a 
pipe.  He  goes  down  to  hell  every  Monday  morning ; 
and  there,  by  a  Davy's  lamp  he  digs  and  delves  in  smoke 
and  heat  and  darkness,  if  he  is  not  summarily  blown 
into  atoms  by  an  explosion  of  fire-damp.  He  comes  up 
into  the  sun,  that  is,  what  ought  to  be  the  sun ;  but  the 
sun  never  shines  on  England;  and  takes  his  wao^es  — 
three  pounds.  Then,  he  drinks  all  day  on  Saturday, 
and  sleeps  and  drinks  all  day  on  Sunday.  He  has  no 
God ;  and  he  goes  down  to  hell  again  on  Monday 
morning —  " 

"  At  least,  he  is  a  producer,"  said  Luke,  fast  losing 
temper.  "  He  understands  the  sacredness  and  nobility 
of  work.  He  is  no  contemjitible  parasite  living  on  the 
labour  of  others." 

"  The  same  may  be  said  for  the  horse  and  the  ass," 
said  Father  Cussen.     ''But  will  any  man  tell  me,  that  ■ 

my  low-typed  Neapolitan  is  not  in  every  way  a  happier,  jf 

better,  nobler  fellow  than  —  " 

"  Happier  ?  There's  your  fallacy.  Men  are  not  born 
for  happiness,  but  for —  " 

"  You  are  quite  right  ;  but  you  are  contradicting 
yourself  hopelessly,  Delmege,"  said  Father  Cussen. 
"  You  are  just  after  stating  that  the  whole  trend  and 
object  of  this  modern  progress  is  the  happiness  of  the 
greater  number." 

"  Quite  so.  Wrought  out  by  Entsagung,  the  Selhst- 
todtung  of  chosen  souls." 

"  Oh,  Lord  !  "  said  Father  Martin,  in  an  undertone,  "  I 
knew  he'd  give  himself  away." 

"  Now,  look  here,  Delmege,"  said  Father  Cussen,  "  I 
don't  want  to  hurt  you  ;  but  that's  all  cant  and  rot,  the 
cant  and  rubbish  of  those  who  are  forever  dictating  to 
the  world  what  the  Church  of  God  alone  can  perform. 


GREEK   MEETS   GREEK  417 

You  know  as  well  as  I,  that  all  this  modern  enthusiasm 
about  humanity  is  simply  a  beggar's  garb  for  the  hideous 
idols  of  a  godless  world.  You  know  there  is  no  charity 
but  in  the  Church  of  God.  All  the  humanitarianism 
outside  is  simj^ly  political  self-preservation,  with  the 
interest  of  the  atom  lost  in  the  interests  of  the  State. 
And  if  you  want  a  proof,  go  to  your  prisons,  go  to  your 
workhouses,  or  go  down  to  your  ports  of  landing,  and 
see  paupers  and  helpless  maniacs  dumped  on  your  Irish 
shores,  because,  after  giving  their  best  years  to  build  up 
the  Temple  of  Mammon  in  England  and  America,  their 
wretched  support,  half-crown  a  week,  would  lessen  the 
majesty  of  the  mighty  god  !  There  is  the  huge  fiction 
of  Protestantism  —  the  Godless  abstraction  —  the  State, 
humanity,  the  race,  etc.  Never  a  word  about  the  maj- 
esty of  the  individual  soul  !  " 

"  That's  all  fine  rhetoric,  Cussen,"  said  Luke,  "  and 
fine  rhetoric  is  the  bane  of  our  race.  But  whilst  all 
your  theories  are  depopulating  the  villages  and  towns 
of  Munster,  Belfast  is  leaping  with  giant  strides  towards 
prosperity  and  affluence." 

"  One  moment,"  said  Father  Cussen.  "  Our  southern 
towns  and  villages  are  being  depopulated.  Why  ? 
Because  the  great  god,  JNIammon,  is  sending  his  apostles 
and  missionaries  amongst  us  ;  because  every  letter  from 
America  is  an  ai)pcal  to  the  cupidity  and  lust  for  pleas- 
ure, which  is  displacing  the  Spartan  simplicity  and 
strength  of  our  race.  The  gas-lit  attractions  of  New 
York  and  Chicago  arc  rivalling  successfully  the  tender, 
chaste  beauties  of  Irish  life  and  Irish  landscapes.  It  is 
because  all  the  chaste  simplicities  of  home  life  are  de- 
spised for  the  meretricious  splendours  of  city  life,  that 
our  people  are  fleeing  from  their  motherland.  But  you 
spoke  of  P.elfast?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Luke.  "  AVhile  all  down  here  is  a  slough 
of  despond  and  misery,  there  in  the  North  you  have  a 
metropolis  of  splendour,  and  wealth,  and  progress." 

"  Progress,  again  !     In  heaven's  name,  man,  are  you 
a  Christian  and  a  Catholic  ?" 
2e 


418  LUKE   DELMEGE 

"  It  is  because  I  am  both  the  one  and  the  other,  that 
I  see  the  inevitable  absorption  of  our  race  in  the 
stronger  one,  or  its  absolute  depletion  under  the  over- 
whelming influences  of  modern  life.  If  we  do  not  adopt 
modern  methods,  out  we  go." 

"And  do  you  consider  what  you  lose  by  your  modern 
methods?  Is  the  game  worth  the  candle?  Listen:  I 
cycled  around  the  North  of  Ireland  last  year  —  " 

"  Vm  surprised,"  said  Luke. 

"  Surprised  at  what  ?  " 

"  That  you  could  be  so  modern  as  to  cycle  at  all." 

"Never  mind.  I  called  at  Portrush;  and  put  up  at 
one  of  the  big  hotels  there." 

"  No,  no  !  "  said  Luke,  sarcastically.  "  You  put  up 
at  a  wayside  cabin;  and  you  had  potatoes  and  potheen 
for  dinner." 

"  Well,"  continued  Father  Cussen,  "  we  were  a  pretty 
happy  party  for  the  week  —  a  few  very  nice  English 
and  Scotch  families,  over  for  golfing  — " 

"Not  at  all.  You're  dreaming,  man.  How  could 
they  be  English  and  nice  ?  "  asked  Luke. 

"  Well,  Pandemonium  burst  on  us  on  Saturday  after- 
noon. Train  after  train  disgorged  the  Progressives  of 
Belfast  —  a  loud,  blatant,  red-faced,  amorphous  set,  who 
paraded  their  vulgar  wealth  everywhere,  and  filled  every 
corridor  and  room  in  the  house  with  an  atmosphere  of 
stale  liquor.  Champagne,  carefully  diluted  with  brandy, 
was  their  beverage.  They  drank  steadily  all  day  on 
Saturday  ;  spent  Sunday,  with  opera  glasses  on  the 
beach,  and  champagne  glasses  in  the  bar.  The  fright- 
ened Saxons  locked  themselves  in  their  bedrooms.  On 
Monday  morning  they  cleared  out  at  seven  —  " 

"  And  every  man  was  in  his  counting-house  at  ten," 
echoed  Luke,  triumphantly. 

"  Well,  that's  your  progress.  Now,  look  on  the  re- 
verse side  of  the  picture.  Last  month,  I  was  down  in 
Crosshaven,  at  the  mouth  of  Cork  Harbor.  It  was  Sun- 
day. Railway  steamer  after  steamer  flung  out  its  quota 
of  passengers  —  pale-faced  mechanics  from  the  city,  with 


GREEK  MEETS   GREEK  419 

their  young  wives,  and  little  cliildren  swinging  Laskets 
of  provisions  between  them  ;  a  crowd  of  laughing  stu- 
dents or  commercial  men  ;  a  number  of  mercantile  or 
professional  men,  seeking  a  breath  of  sea-air  and  a  few 
hours'  rest  ;  a  bevy  of   gaily  dressed,  laughing   girls, 

"Oh,  go  on,  go  on  !  "  said  Luke.  "You  are  doing 
well  with  your  word-painting." 

"  I  saw  them,  these  mere  Irish,"  continued  Father 
Cussen,  witli  some  emotion,  "  going  out  the  white  road 
towards  the  sea  ;  I  saw  them  on  the  cliffs  ;  I  saw  them 
on  the  beach  — a  happy,  bright,  cheerful  crowd.  I  saw 
them  taking  oat  their  modest  dinners  —  a  sandwich  or 
two,  a  bottle  of  lemonade,  a  few  cakes  and  oranges  for 
the  children.  I  passed  through  and  through  these 
happy  groups,  near  enough  to  hear  every  word  they 
said.  I  peered  over  the  shoulders  of  a  young  mechanic. 
He  was  reading  Sesame  and  Lilies.  I  saw  them  return 
in  the  evening  —  a  happy,  bright,  courteous,  rehned 
crowd  ;  no  hustling  or  jostling  ;  but  Celtic  politeness 
and  Celtic  wit  and  humour.  And  then  I  thought  of 
Portrush  ;  and  of  their  fellow-countrymen  festering  in 
the  fetid  tenements  of  New  York,  or  gasping  for  a  mo- 
ment's breath  in  the  siroccos  of  the  Western  States  ; 
and  I  thought,  that  progress  consists  not  in  miles  of 
gas-lit  streets,  or  millions  of  bricks  piled  squarely 
against  the  sky  ;  but  in  human  souls,  taught  to  know 
tiieir  dignity,  and  the  vast  universe  of  their  inheritance." 

"  I  do  not  at  all  dispute  your  reasoning,  or  your  con- 
clusions," said  Luke,  meekly  ;  "  but  how  does  it  solve 
the  problem,  that  is  threatening,  not  theories  of  life, 
but  the  very  existence  of  the  race  itself  ?  Here  il  is  : 
can  you  find  a  via  media  l)etween  modern  civilization 
and  Irish  purity  and  faith?  If  you  do  not  adopt  the 
methods  of  the  former,  your  very  existence,  as  a  race, 
is  at  stake.  If  you  adopt  them,  all  tlie  characteristic 
glories  of  your  race  and  faith  vanish.  Here  comes  mod- 
ern progress,  like  a  huge  soulless  engine  !  Tliere  is  but 
one  way  of  escaping  being  trodden  out  of  existence  by 


420  LUKE  DELMEGE 

it,  and  that  is,  to  leap  up  and  go  with  it,  and  then,  what 
becomes  of  your  tender  faith  and  all  the  sweet  sinceri- 
ties of  j^our  Irish  innocence  and  helplessness  ?  " 

"  We  can  create  our  own  civilization,"  said  Father 
Cussen.  "  Here  is  our  initial  mistake,  with,  God  knows, 
what  consequences.  We  are  imitators,  instead  of  being 
creators." 

"And,  meanwhile,  what  is  to  save  you?  English 
omnipotence  is  pushing  from  behind :  American  attrac- 
tions are  dragging  in  front.     What  can  save  you  ?  " 

Father  Cussen  paused  for  a  moment.  Then,  lifting 
his  hand  with  some  solemnity  towards  the  ceiling,  he 
said :  — 

"  The  God  of  Abraham,  and  of  Isaac,  and  of 
Jacob  !  The  same  God  that  has  pulled  our  race 
through  seven  centuries  of  fire  and  blood." 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

PERCUSSA  ET   IIUMILIATA 

When  Sister  Mary  laid  aside  her  Norman  cap,  at 
niglit,  she  also  laid  down  her  crown  of  thorns;  and, 
with  her  blue  mantella,  she  put  aside  the  cross  she  was 
bearing  so  bravely  and  lovingly.  For  it  was  a  mighty 
cross,  assumed  in  a  spirit  of  love  and  penance  ;  and  it 
bore  down  to  the  earth  sometimes  the  frail  figure  that 
supported  it.  For  Nature  is  ever  in  protest  against  the 
spirit;  and  is  ever  asking  querulously,  Wh}' ?  why? 
when  the  soul  seeks  pain,  and  the  body  cries  for  rest. 
But  sleep  brought  more  than  rest  to  this  penitent  spirit. 
It  l)rought  dreams;  and  dreams  brought  anguish  to  the 
daylight.'  I>ut  they  were  very  beautiful.  Were  there 
no  waking,  they  would  have  made  Heaven.  And  now 
some  of  these  dreams  occurred  again  and  again  ;  and 
Sister  iNhuy  was  obliged,  so  very  beautiful  they  were 
in  sleep,  so  dread  in  the  consciousness  of  day,  to  ask 
prayers  frequently  against  their  recurrence. 

"  Pray,  Sister,"  she  would  say  to  tlie  nun  in  charge 
of  the  dormitory,  "  that  I  may  not  dream  to-night  !  " 

Hut  tlie  dream  that  used  to  dawn  out  of  the  shad- 
ows of  sleep  most  frequently  was  this.  She  thouglit 
she  walked  in  a  great  garden,  beneath  the  umbrage  of 
trees,  and  Innislied  by  the  great,  beautiful  flowers,  that 
leaned  towards  her  to  toucli  lior  feet,  her  bands  and  lier 
garments.  And  in  the  garden  was  a  mighly  [jalace, 
always  lighted  for  a  festival  ;  and  she  saw  a  long  pro- 
cession of  tlie  white-rol)ed  immortals  entering  slowly, 
but  with  U}»lifted  faces,  on  which  the  lights  of  the  lian- 
queting  hall  sht)ne.     And,  when  all  had  entered,  and 

421 


1 


422         .  LUKE  DELMECJE 

the  doors  were  about  to  be  shut,  a  Figure  came  to  the 
portals,  and,  shading  His  eyes  with  His  right  hand, 
looked  long  and  lingeringly  into  the  darkness.  And 
Mary  knew  that  it  was  herself  was  the  desired  one  ;  but 
she  dared  not  come  out  of  the  darkness  into  the  light, 
because  the  robes  of  humiliation  were  around  her ;  and 
the  blue  serge  of  sorrow  was  not  a  fitting  garment  for 
the  splendours  of  the  King's  Hall.  So  she  turned 
away  from  the  questing  eyes  ;  and  sought  the  shadows 
again.  Then  she  was  suddenly  aware  that  a  Voice, 
quite  near,  called  her ;  and  that  she  was  sought  out 
amongst  the  shadows.  For  she  heard,  ever  and  again, 
the  whisper :  Veni,  Sponsa  !  Veni,  Immaculata  !  Veyii, 
8po7isa  mea  !  and  then  a  hand  was  laid  gently  upon  her. 
She  was  found,  and  reproached.  But  she  could  only 
point  to  the  blue  garment  of  penitence,  and  weep.  And 
then  she  found  herself  in  the  Hall  of  the  King  ;  and 
with  His  own  wounded  hands  He  put  on  the  bridal  robes 
—  the  soft,  white  habit,  and  the  veil,  and  drew  around 
her  the  blue  cincture  and  let  the  scapulary  fall  ;  and  He 
hung  the  Silver  Heart  on  her  breast,  and  tied  the  rosary 
to  her  girdle ;  and  lo  !  she  was  a  Sister  of  the  Good 
Shepherd.  And  He  led  her  trembling  into  the  lighted 
Hall ;  and  all  her  Sisters  gathered  around  her,  and 
kissed  her  —  and  then,  —  well,  then,  she  would  wake  up 
on  her  narrow  bed  in  the  gloom  of  a  winter's  morning, 
with  just  a  yellow  gas-jet  above  her  head  ;  and,  ah,  yes  ! 
here  was  the  blue  serge  mantella  and  skirt  ;  and  here 
the  high,  frilled,  Norman  cap  —  the  badge  of  penitence 
and  shame.  No  wonder  that  her  heart  sank  like  lead, 
and  that  a  film  crossed  her  eyes,  as  she  went  about  her 
weary  work  for  yet  another  day ;  until,  perhaps  at  Mass, 
or  afterwards  in  the  hushed  silence  of  the  afternoon,  she 
would  study  and  watch  the  white  figure  of  her  crucifix  ; 
and,  then,  with  one  swift  aerial  flight,  as  a  mother-bird 
swoops  on  her  nest,  she  would  fly  on  the  wings  of  love, 
and  fold  herself  and  nestle  in  the  big,  gaping  wounds  of 
the  torn  side  of  Christ ;  and  then  all  was  peace  again 
until  another  dream. 


PERCUSSA   ET    HUMILIATA  423 

But  there  were  other  sorrows,  too,  awaiting  her,  deep 
humiliations,  that  plunged  her  into  the  abyss,  until 
rescued  by  prayer  and  faith.  Thei-e  is  no  use  in  argu- 
ing against  the  inexorable  law.  The  gold  must  be  lire- 
tried. 

There  was  one  young  penitent  who  was  the  special 
object  of  Sister  Mary's  solicitude.  She  had  come  into 
this  sacred  asylum  again  and  again ;  and  again  and 
again  she  had  gone  out  unto  the  dread  attractions  of 
the  midnight  streets.  But  always,  when  she  knocked 
hum])ly  at  the  Convent  gate,  she  was  admitted  with  a 
smile  of  welcome.  The  charity  of  this  Order,  like  the 
charity  of  Christ,  is  inexhaustible.  It  would  be  a  ter- 
rifying novelty,  except  to  those  accustomed  to  the 
supernatural,  to  witness  the  fierce  fury  of  the  tempta- 
tions that  used  to  assail  this  young  girl  —  the  paroxysms 
under  which  she  strove  to  resist  her  own  dread  inclina- 
tions, and  the  wiles  of  the  unseen.  It  was  here  that  Sis- 
ter iSIary  had  been  most  successful.  Because,  although 
her  efforts  at  reclamation  of  this  sister-penitent  were 
doomed  to  disappointment,  and  the  bird  was  forever 
breaking  from  her  hands,  there  was  some  tie  between 
them,  some  bond  of  love,  that  might  have  been  stretched 
and  strained,  but  was  never  broken.  And  whenever  the 
poor  girl  returned,  clothed  in  her  right  senses,  after  th  3 
s})ell  of  midnight  madness,  it  was  always  Sister  iNIary 
who  was  privileged  to  take  off  the  soiled  gewgaws  of 
fashion,  and  put  on  the  cleaner  vestures  of  penitence 
and  grace.  There  was  therefore  great  love  between 
them,  the  love  of  the  rescued  and  the  rescuer. 

Well,  one  day,  after  the  dream  of  the  Espousals,  the 
old  fury  seized  on  this  young  girl ;  and  she  announced 
her  intention  of  leaving  the  asylum.  And,  as  there  was 
perfect  freedom  to  come  or  to  go,  the  permission  was 
accortled.  She  had  most  carefully  screened  her  inten- 
tion from  Sister  Mary,  lest  the  entreaties  of  the  latter 
should  compel  her  to  forego  her  resolution  ;  and  it  so 
happened,  that  Laura  Desmond  (this  was  the  young 
girl's  name)  was  passing  down  the   long  corridor,  in 


424  LUKE  DELMEGE 

which  was  the  oratory  and  the  niched  statue  of  the 
Good  Shepherd,  when  she  heard  rapid  footsteps  echoing 
on  the  tiled  pavement  behind  her.  She  did  not  look 
around.  She  fled.  There  was  a  moment's  delay  in 
opening  the  gate  that  led  into  the  outer  world  ;  and 
she  felt  a  gentle  hand  laid  on  her  shoulder,  and  a  voice 
as  from  eternity  said  :   "  Laura  I "' 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Laura,  turning  fiercely  on  her  pursuer. 

"  You  are  not  leaving  us  ?  "  said  Sister  Mary. 

"  I  beg  yer  pardin'  :  I  am  though,"  said  the  poor  girl. 

"  Turning  your  back  on  the  Sisters,  and  on  Father 
Tracey,  and  on  —  our  Lord  ?  "  said  the  pleading  voice. 

"  That's  me  own  business,"  said  the  poor  fugitive. 

"And  then,  going  out  to  the  world — and  the  horrors 
—  the  awful  horrors  of  the  streets?"  And  Sister  Mary's 
hand  trembled  on  the  shoulder  of  the  poor  girl. 

"  Ye  seem  to  know  a  good  deal  about  them,"  sneered 
the  poor  girl.  "  Come,  Mary,  yerself,  and  we'll  have 
a  good  time.     Sure,  ye  can  come  back  agin  !  " 

"What  awful  spirit  possesses  you ?  "  said  Sister  Mary, 
staiting  back,  horror-stricken.  " Oh,  child,  child  I  come 
back  I  come  back  to  God  !  There's  no  harm  done  yet. 
Return  !  and  all  will  be  well  !  " 

But  the  dark  spirit  was  filling  to  repletion  this  doomed 
soul.     And  bespoke,  "Is  it  you'll  make  me?"  he  said. 

"  Not  I,  but  our  Lord,"  said  Sister  Mary. 

"  Stand  back  and  lem'me  pass  !  "  he  shouted. 

The  gentle  hand  was  still  on  the  girl's  shoulder.  It 
now  stole  around  her  neck. 

"  Wance  more,  I  say,  stand  back,  and  lem'me  pass  !  " 

The  arm  unconsciously  tightened  around  her  neck. 

"  There,  thin,  take  that  !  "  and  Sister  Mary  felt  a 
stinging  blow  on  the  face,  and  she  reeled  and  fell.  And, 
as  she  fell,  the  wretched  girl  tore  off  her  own  scapulars 
and  beads,  and  flung  them  on  the  prostrate  form.  Then 
she  tore  her  frantic  way  into  the  outer  Avorld. 

But,  a  greater  Power  pursued  her.  She  had  reached 
the  outer  gate  that  led  into  the  road,  when  she  thought 
the  world  was  falling  to  pieces,  and  that  the  end  of  all 


I 

i 


PERCUSSA   ET   HUMILIATA  425 

things  had  come.  The  trees  seemed  to  crash  down  on 
her  path,  and  the  great  iron  gate  smote  her  as  with 
steel  gantlets.  Earth  rose  up  to  overwhelm  her,  and 
the  universe  seemed  rushing  to  ruin  around  her.  There 
was  a  sound  in  her  ears  of  mighty  waters  that  liad  broken 
their  bounds,  and  were  heaving  and  plunging  in  illimi- 
table ruin,  and  a  great  darkness  came  down  out  of  the 
angry  skies,  and  whelmed  all  things  in  a  dread  and  fate- 
ful night.  And  then,  as  an  end  to  the  sudden  and  fear- 
ful cataclysm,  all  was  still,  and  all  was  dead. 

When,  after  three  days  of  unconsciousness,  but  of 
dread  convulsions,  Laura  Desmond  woke  up  from  her 
epileptic  fit  in  the  Convent  infirmary,  it  was  quite  clear 
that  she  had  been  saved.  The  brand  was  snatched  from 
the  burning,  and  would  never  again  feed  the  flames. 
Her  beauty  was  gone.  One  side  of  her  face  was  hope- 
lessly paralyzed. 

During  these  three  days  Sister  ]\Iary  knocked  furi- 
ously at  the  gates  of  Divine  Mercy  ;  but  varied  her 
supplications  with  loud  and  fervent  hosannas  for  the 
redemption  of  that  soul.  And  when  she  heard  that  the 
poor  patient  had  recovered  consciousness,  but  was  a 
hopeless  physical  wreck,  great  were  her  jubihition  and 
thanksgiving.  "What!"  exclaims  our  ardent  humani- 
tarian  ;  "jubilation  over  a  wrecked  and  shattered  body  ? 
Where  is  humanitv  and  fellow  feeling:  ?  And  the  Divine 
Altruism,  etc.,  etc.  ?"  Even  so,  my  good  frientl  I  Suoh 
are  tlie  ways  of  these  strange  people,  called  Catholics, 
and  tlie  still  more  stranofe  elect  amongst  them,  called 
Saints.  For  to  them  a  shattered  and  broken  frame, 
even  though  it  was  honeycombed  Avith  a  thousand  dis- 
eases and  racked  by  a  million  nerves,  is  a  better  thing 
tlian  an  imi)ure  body,  were  it  that  of  Aphrodite  herself  ; 
and,  beyond  the  body,  though  still  its  inhabitani.  and 
immeasurably  separated  from  it  in  importance,  is  the 
soul  ;  and  the  soul,  the  soul,  the  soul,  here  is  the  one 
tiling  that  takes  the  place  of  gold  and  consols,  scrips 
and  shares,  in  the  divine  economy  of  the  Church.  And 
hence,  Sister   Mary  rejoiced  and  was  exceeding  glad, 


426  LUKE   DELMEGE 

because  her  little  client  could  never  again  go  forth  to 
snare  the  unwary  with  her  eyes  and  mouth.  And,  as 
for  the  rest,  here  was  peace  and  rest,  and  all  that  Divine 
Charity  could  effect  for  the  solace  of  the  stricken  one, 
and  her  strengthening  under  her  trial. 

A  few  days  after  the  patient  had  recovered  conscious- 
ness. Sister  Mary  was  admitted  to  see  her.  She  was  not 
prepared  for  her  reception.  For  the  moment  the  eyes 
of  the  poor  girl,  wandering  around  the  infirmary,  rested 
on  the  meek  face  of  her  rescuer,  a  look  of  awe  and  un- 
speakable dread  crossed  her  face.  She  looked  plead- 
ingly at  the  Sister  Infirmarian,  who  interpreted  the 
look  as  one  of  aversion  and  pain,  and  who  instantly 
said  :  — 

"  Sister  Mary,  your  presence  is  painful  to  this  poor 
child.  I  think  you  had  better  leave  the  infirmary. 
And,  if  you  have  hurt  this  poor  girl's  feelings,  ask  God 
to  forgive  you." 

The  patient  seemed  to  make  a  feeble  protest,  which 
the  Infirmarian  interpreted  as  assent ;  and  Sister  Mary 
bowed  her  head,  and  left  the  room. 

The  follov/ing  Saturday,  the  penitents  around  Father 
Tracey's  confessional  were  quite  sure  they  heard  the 
sound  of  sobbing,  when  Sister  Mary  was  at  confession. 
And,  on  this  occasion,  she  remained  a  very  long  and 
most  unusual  time  on  her  knees.  And  they  wondered, 
when  they  saw  her  emerge,  with  red,  swollen  eyes  —  it 
was  so  unlike  her,  who  was  always  so  calm  and  composed. 
Bat  their  wonder  was  nothing  to  that  of  Father  Tracey, 
who,  commencing  with  his  usual  formula,  "Yes,  yes, 
my  dear,  to  be  sure  !  "  was  surprised  to  hear  behind 
the  screen  the  sound  of  a  voice  broken  with  sobs,  and 
utterly  unable  to  proceed  with  the  usual  weekly  con- 
fession. Then  a  transformation  took  place.  His  great 
saint,  whom  he  had  feared  to  address,  was  but  human 
after  all.  She,  too,  had  come  down  from  the  mountains 
into  the  valley  of  desolation,  and  claimed  comfort  and 
strength  at  his  priestly  hands.  And  as  nothing  melts 
the  heart  of  a  priest  so  much  as  an  appeal  for  help  and 


PERCUSSA   ET   HUMILIATA  427 

pity,  tliis  holy  servant  threw  aside  all  his  reserve  and 
fear  ;  and  drawing  out  gently  tlie  source  of  sorrow  from 
this  aftiicted  soul,  he  poured  out  of  his  great  priestly 
heart  a  torrent  of  balm  and  consolation,  until  his  very 
emotion  choked  him,  and  he  wondered  at  himself,  as  he 
closed  this  first  exhortation  to  that  soul  with  the  words  : 
"  Thou  didst  call  upon  me  in  affliction.,  and  I  delivered 
thee;  I  heard  thee  in  the  secret  place  of  tempest ;  I  proved 
thee  at  the  waters  of  contradiction.'" 

Some  days  elapsed ;  and  Sister  Mary  was  alone  in 
the  infirmary  with  Laura  Desmond.  The  latter  had 
recovered  the  use  of  speech ;  but  her  faculties  seemed 
to  be  wandering.  At  least,  she  stared  at  Sister  ]Mary 
as  at  an  apparition ;  and,  after  a  long  time,  and  many 
kind  things  said  by  the  latter,  Laura  drew  her  down 
gently,  until  her  face  almost  touched  the  poor  paralyzed 
cheek,  and  whispered  :  — 

"  Wlio  are  you?" 

"  Don't  you  know  me,  dear,  —  Sister  Mary,  your  old 
friend?" 

"  You  are  7iot  Sister  Mary,"  said  Laura  ;  "  nor  Sister 
anything  else  !     Who  are  you?  " 

"  There  now,  dear,"  said  her  friend,  thinking  this 
was  the  delirium  of  illness.  "  Rest,  and  only  talk  in 
a  whisper  to  God  !  " 

"  I  will,"  said  the  poor  patient.  "  But  I'd  like  to 
know  who  you  are." 

"  Dear  God !  restore  her  to  her  senses  !  "  said  Sister 
Mary.  "  I  am  one  of  the  Magdalens,  dear,  a  poor  soul, 
like  3^ourself,  whom  the  love  of  the  Sacred  Heart  has 
rescued." 

Laura  shook  her  head.  "Don't  tell  nic,"  slie  whis- 
pered. "You  are  nothing  of  the  kind.  Yoii  never 
sinned.      Don't  tell  me  !  " 

"  We  have  all  sinned,  dear,"  said  Sister  iMary.  "  AVe 
are  all  unworthy  children.  It  is  but  (lod's  mercy  that 
spares  us." 

"You  are  good,"  said  Laura,  "and  you  should  not 
lie.     You  are  not  a  Ma^fdalen." 


428  LUKE   DELMEGE 

Then  Sister  Mary  felt  the  hot  blood  mounting  to 
face  and  forehead,  as  she  drew  back  from  the  revelation. 

"  There,"  said  Laura,  pulling  down  the  sweet  face 
again,  and  touching  the  cheek  with  her  finger,  "  there's 
where  I  struck  you,  —  may  God,  in  His  mercy,  forgive 
me  !     There  is  the  print  of  my  four  fingers." 

"Forget  it,  dear,"  said  Sister  Mary;  "although  it 
was  a  happy  thing  for  me  and  you." 

"  An'  you  won't  tell  me  who  you  are,"  said  Laura. 
"  Well,  some  day  I'll  find  out  —  " 

"  No  !  no  !  "  said  Mar}',  frightened.  "  Leave  me  as 
I  am.     It's  God's  will." 

"  I  suppose  now,"  said  the  affectionate  girl,  "  some 
mother  is  thinkin'  of  you,  and  wondherin'  where  you 
are ;  or  your  father  is  wishin'  that  he  had  you  with 
him,  and  that  he  could  sthroke  down  your  beautiful 
hair,  like  this  — " 

"  Don't,  dear,  don't,"  said  Sister  Mary.  "We  are 
all  gathered  here  by  God.  Let  us  forget  everything 
else." 

"  Well,  whatever  you  like,"  said  Laura.  "  But  you're 
not  wan  of  us.  Don't  tell  me.  You're  not  wan  of  us, 
whoever  you  are." 

Sister  Mary  left  it  so,  answering  nothing.  But  the 
poor  puzzled  brain  was  busy  solving  the  enigma.  It 
was  clear,  clear  as  noonday  to  this  poor  girl's  infallible 
instincts  that  her  friend,  though  she  wore  the  garb  of 
penitence,  was  immaculate  before  God.  How  she  ar- 
rived at  the  conclusion,  it  would  be  difficult  to  conjec- 
ture. It  might  have  been  some  faculty,  like  that  which 
the  saints  possessed,  but  struggling  and  obscure,  and 
which  recognized  that  here  were  none  of  the  indelible 
marks  of  sin,  which  remain,  even  after  years  of  repent- 
ance. But  it  was  quite  clear  that  she  saw  something 
quite  unique,  and  different  from  ordinary  experience 
in  this  girl,  who  had  so  often  rescued  her;  and  her 
poor  brain  began  to  trace  causes  and  origins  and  rea- 
sons for  the  bewildering  fact,  that  a  sinless  soul  had 
chosen  to  assume  a  character  from  which  every  one,  not 


PERCUSSA   ET   HUMILIATA  429 

imbued  with  the  charity  of  Christ,  turns  away  with 
loathing  and  abhorrence.  It  was  inexplicable,  —  a  deep, 
awful  mystery  for  which  there  was  no  explanation.  For 
days  Laura  Desmond  dwelt  and  rested  on  the  thought. 
Sometimes  she  would  watch  Sister  INIary  performing  the 
ordinary  offices  of  the  infirmary,  where  she  was  assist- 
ant—  watch  her  with  curious  speculation  in  her  eyes. 
And  when  her  good  friend  came  over  to  perform  some 
little  kindly  act  around  her  bedside,  or  to  ask  a  ques- 
tion, or  to  whisper  a  prayer,  Laura  would  stare  lier  all 
over  with  tlie  unconsciousness  of  a  child,  and  study  her 
eyes  and  mouth,  and  touch  her  hair  and  her  dress,  and 
take  up  her  hand  to  study  it,  like  a  palmist ;  and  then 
would  turn  away  to  pursue  the  vast  enigma  which  was 
tlirown  on  the  blurred  canvas  of  her  own  life. 

After  many  days  of  deep  cogitation  ;  and  after  patch- 
ing and  piecing  together  all  that  she  had  ever  heard  of, 
and  all  her  own  experiences  of  Sister  INIary,  she  came 
to  a  dread  conclusion,  which  plunged  her  back  into  de- 
spair. It  was  midnight  when  it  seized  her  in  her  sleep- 
less meditations  ;  and  starting  up  wildly,  she  rang  her 
bell,  and  summoned  the  Sister  Infirmarian.  In  a  mo- 
ment tlie  latter  was  by  her  bedside,  but  was  appalled  to 
see  the  look  of  horror  and  dismay  on  the  features  of  her 
poor  patient. 

"  Call  the  priest,"  was  the  cry,  "at  once  !  at  once  !  " 

And  so  Father  Tracey  heard  in  his  slumbers  the  famil- 
iar sound  of  the  midnight  bell,  and  woke  up,  confused, 
and  put  on  in  a  dream  his  dingy  clothes,  praying  and 
asking  :  "  What  poor  soul  wants  me  now  ?  " 

If  there  be  on  earth  one  reward  greater  than  another 
for  the  sacrifice  a  priest  is  forever  called  upon  to  make 
for  liis  flock,  it  is  the  dawn  of  hope  and  comfort  that 
shines  in  the  eyes  and  on  the  faces  of  the  pain-stricken, 
or  the  sorrowful,  or  the  desjtairing,  when  a  priest  ap- 
proaches their  l)ed  of  sickness  or  suffering,  and  all  the 
phantoms  tliat  haunt  poor  humanity  fly  at  his  approach. 
The  mnrniured  ''  Thank  God  !  "  the  little  laugli,  half- 
smothered,  of  triumph  and  x^eace  ;  the  very  manner  in 


I 


430  LUKE   DELMEGE 

which  the  sick  and  the  wounded  arrange  themselves  on 
their  couches  of  sorrow,  as  if  they  said  :  "  I  have  got 
a  new  lease  of  life  now  ;  for  the  Healer  and  Consoler 
is  here  !  "  —  all  this  faith  and  confidence  and  hope, 
placed  in  his  very  presence,  as  apart  from  his  ministra- 
tions, is  a  reward,  so  far  beyond  all  earthly  guerdons 
and  triumphs  that  it  can  only  be  said  to  foreshadow  the 
blisses  of  eternity.  So,  at  least,  Father  Tracey  felt; 
and  so  did  he  thank  God  every  moment  for  the  sublime 
vocation,  which,  in  all  humility  and  meekness,  he  was 
followinof. 

When  he  entered  the  infirmary  this  night,  every  one 
gathered  around  Laura  Desmond's  sick-bed  felt  a  kind 
of  sensible  relief.  And  she  turned  to  him  wistfully,  and 
when  he  bent  down  to  hear  what  she  had  to  say,  she 
locked  one  finger  in  the  button-hole  of  his  coat,  as  if  to 
secure  him  beyond  all  doubt.  Then,  in  a  husky  voice, 
she  whispered  her  secret. 

He  drew  back  in  amazement,  and  looked  at  her,  as  if 
her  mind  was  astray.  When  she  persisted,  he  only 
smiled,  which  seemed  to  reassure  her  ;  and  then  he 
laughed  the  idea  to  scorn.  This  seemed  to  compose 
the  poor  girl,  but  she  held  the  button-hole  firmly. 

"  On  your  word  of  honour,  as  a  priest,  are  ye  tellin' 
me  the  truth  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  am,"  he  cried.  "  Compose  yourself, 
child,  and  try  and  get  some  sleep." 

"  There's  no  more  sleep  for  me,"  she  said,  "  until  I 
get  God's  assurance  that  it  is  not  so." 

"  Take  my  assurance,"  he  said.  "  What  more  can 
you  have  ?  " 

"  Very  well,  yer  reverence.  But  I  tell  you  this,  — 
she's  no  more  wan  of  us,  than  —  than  —  than  —  " 

"  That  may  be,  too,"  he  said,  although  he  felt  he  was 
venturing  dangerously  near  the  King's  Secret.  "  God 
alone  knows  the  secrets  of  hearts." 

"  Thin  why  is  she  here  ?  "  asked  the  bewildered  girl. 
"  Sure  this  is  no  place  for  her  likes.  Unless,"  she  drifted 
back  to  the  old  idea,  "  she  is  what  I  say." 


PERCUSSA   ET    HUMILIATA  431 

"Put  that  idea  forever  from  your  mind,"  he  said, 
gently  disengaging  himself.  "  And  pray,  pray.  There 
are  more  saints  in  the  world  than  the  world  is  aware  of." 

A  few  days  afterwards  he  had  a  long  conference  with 
Sister  Eulalie  on  the  subject. 

"  Sometimes  I  begin  to  doubt,  myself,"  he  said.  "  The 
whole  thing  is  so  strange  and  wonderful  and  beautiful. 
It  will  be  many  a  day  before  the  idea  leaves  that  poor 
girl's  mind." 

"  It  is  strange  and  beautiful,"  said  Sister  Eulalie. 
"  Sometimes,  I  am  inclined  to  kneel  down  and  kiss  the 
ground  where  she  walks.  And  fancy  poor  Luke's  sus- 
picions about  imposture  and  hysteria." 

"  You're  quite  sure  you  know  her  ?  "  Father  Tracey 
said  meditatively.  "  That  you  have  seen  her  ;  and 
there  is  no  doubt  ?  " 

"  There  !  you're  nearly  as  bad  as  Laura,"  said  Sister 
Eulalie.  "  There  is  no  mistake,  except  that,  God  for- 
give me,  I  thought  ill,  too,  of  tliis  sweet  saint,  and 
thought  her  stuck-up  and  proud  and  disdainful." 

"  But  you  may  be  mistaken,  my  dear,"  said  Father 
Tracey.     "One  never  knows.     And  fancy,  if — " 

"There  now,  you're  off,  too.  There's  no  doubt, 
Father,"  she  said  reassuringly.  "  It  is  she ;  and  slie 
does  not  dream  that  we  know  of  her  and  her  awful 
vow." 

And  Sister  Eulalie  shuddered  to  think  if  such  an 
oblation  were  ever  required  of  her. 

Sister  Mary  began  to  be  very  nuich  pained  and  very 
much  bewildered.  Just  as  her  confessor  began  to  regard 
her  as  human,  mid  therefore  pitiable,  her  associates  be- 
gan to  consider  her  as  something  superluiman  and  celes- 
tial, and  sent  amongst  them  through  some  secret  and 
ineffable  design  of  God.  It  was  a  long  time  before 
Sister  Mary's  humility  would  permit  her  to  recognize 
this  fact.  Nay,  even,  she  regarded  tlie  reverence  and 
timid  slirinking  from  her,  the  slipj)ing  aside  from  her 
path  wlien  she  appeared  amongst  a  group  of  penitents, 
the  sudden  silence,  the  quiet  watchfulness  that  followed 


432  LUKE   DELMEGE 

all  her  movements,  as  indications  of  aversion  and  sus- 
picion. And,  interpreting  all  this  by  the  remark  of  the 
Sister  Infirmarian  after  Laura's  recovery  of  conscious- 
ness, she  concluded  that,  in  some  way,  she  had  been 
guilty  of  undue  harshness,  apparently  as  the  result  of 
self-conceit,  and  that  she  was,  in  consequence  thereof, 
shunned  and  disliked  by  those  she  loved  so  much.  It 
was  a  subtle  and  most  painful  delusion,  and  it  caused 
her  infinite  anxiety.  It  was  the  sharpest  mortification 
she  had  yet  received.  The  cross  was  weighing  heavily; 
tlie  thorns  were  pressing  sharply,  and  she  was  about  to 
faint.  Then  one  day,  to  her  intense  amazement,  she 
found,  as  she  passed  by  a  group  with  averted  faces,  her 
mantella  slightly  touched,  and,  turning  around,  she 
found  that  one  of  the  group  had  raised  it  reverently 
and  kissed  it.  And  she  trembled  all  over  with  the 
sudden  revelation  that  she  was  regarded  with  reverence, 
and  not  aversion,  and  then  she  grew  pale  and  trembled 
still  more,  for  the  dread  that  the  mighty  secret  of  her 
life  was  about  to  be  revealed. 

The  truth  was,  that  Laura's  whispered  suspicions, 
though  stilled  by  the  voice  of  authority,  had  taken  wing 
and  flown  from  soul  to  soul  of  the  community  of  peni- 
tents, and  very  wild  surmises  were  afloat.  "  There  are 
more  saints  in  the  world  than  the  world  is  aware  of," 
said  their  own  dear  saint.  Father  Tracey.  Well  then, 
who  knows  ?  Doesn't  every  man,  woman,  and  child  in 
Ireland  understand  and  believe  that  in  one  shape  or 
another  the  Blessed  Virgin,  the  great  Mary  of  Ireland, 
the  Mary  of  her  ancient  litanies  and  Masses,  is  always 
amongst  the  Irish  people  ?  Hasn't  her  sweet  face  been 
seen  again  and  again  ?  Hasn't  she  appeared  to  poor 
sinners  on  their  death-beds,  and  haven't  they  pointed 
out  her  white,  refulgent  figure  to  the  priest,  as  she 
hovered  over  their  beds  and  beckoned  them  to  Paradise? 
Hasn't  she  appeared  to  little  girls  over  there  in  France  ? 
Wliy  not,  tlierefore,  to  her  own  Irish,  who  love  her 
more  than  all  the  world  beside  ?  Well,  we  say  nothing, 
but  we  think  a  good  deal,  even  we,  poor   penitents. 


PERCUSSA   ET   HUMILIATA  433 

May  not  the  all-sinless  one  have  come  down  here,  and 
put  on  our  poor  garments,  even  as  her  Son  put  on  the 
Hesh  that  had  smned  ?  Oli,  no,  we  daren't  say  any- 
thing ;  but  —  who  knows  ? 

And  Laura's  dread  thought,  that  this  might  be  the 
very  Mother  of  God  whom  she  struck  with  her  open 
hand — the  dread  thought  that  rang  the  midnight  bell, 
and  summoned  Father  Tracey  from  his  dreamless  sleep, 
began  to  pursue  its  way,  under  a  thousand  modifications, 
through  the  minds  and  hearts  of  these  poor,  repentant 
ones  ;  and  although  no  one  dared  breathe  such  a  whis- 
per, and  Sister  Mary  could  only  conjecture  tluit  there 
had  come  a  great  change  over  her  associates,  she  only 
knew  that  her  cross  had  been  suddenly  lifted  by  an 
Unseen  Hand,  and  that  He  had  verified  His  words  :  "  I 
heard  thee  in  the  secret  place  of  tempest ;  I  proved  thee 
uv  the  waters  of  contradiction." 


2p 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 
DAGON   DISMEMBERED 

The  last  words  of  Father  Cussen  in  the  library  at  Sea- 
view  Cottage  may  be  said  to  have  commenced  Luke  Del- 
mege's  Illumination.  The  world's  catchwords  seemed 
to  have  lost  all  meaning  in  the  appeal  to  God.  He  be- 
gan to  understand  how  divine  was  the  vocation  of  the 
Church  in  its  mission  to  the  individual,  and  how  sublime 
was  her  carelessness  under  what  form  of  government 
she  worked,  so  long  as  she  was  not  interfered  with  in 
her  quest  after  human  souls.  Side  by  side  with  this 
conviction  there  grew  up  the  perception  that  his  own 
race  were  following  out  this  divine  apostolate  in  secret 
and  hidden  ways.  Sometimes,  when  entering  a  city 
convent,  he  would  meet  a  batch  of  nuns  just  returned 
from  Benin,  or  a  young  Irish  Sister  just  about  to  start 
for  Java.  And  they  thought  no  more  of  the  journey 
and  its  hardships  than  if  it  were  a  picnic  to  some  pic- 
turesque spot  on  the  Shannon.  And  he  found  the  entire 
burden  of  their  conversation  was  the  souls  of  black,  nude 
niggers,  Avhom  modern  imperialism  would  gladly  blow 
into  space  with  lyddite  and  dynamite,  or  corrupt  and 
corrode  into  disease  and  death  by  the  agencies  of  modern 
civilization.  And  when  these  young  martyr  apostles 
left,  they  left  behind  them  the  divine  contagion ;  and 
little  Irish  children,  who,  perhaps,  themselves  were  in 
want  of  bread,  brought  their  halfpennies  to  the  treasury 
of  the  convent,  "to  buy  a  black  baby  for  God."  And 
Luke's  heart  often  wailed  aloud,  because  he  had  turned 
his  back  once  and  forever  on  the  same  divine  vocation ; 
and  his  conscience  murmured  more  than  once,  Idiota ! 

434 


f 


,7' 


I 


DAGON   DISMEMBERED  435 

Idiota !  But  he  had  gained  two  facts  by  experience  : 
(1)  That  the  individual  soul  was  everything  to  the 
Church  and  God  ;  and  (2)  that  the  feigned  and  ficti- 
tious watchwords  of  the  new  gospel  of  humanity  were 
the  unspoken  but  well-fulhlled  vows  of  his  owji  race. 
"  The  horse-leech  hath  two  daughters  which  say,  Give  ! 
give  !  "  But  ''  renunciation  "  is  the  motto  of  the  apos- 
tles of  his  race. 

So,  too,  there  began  to  dawn  upon  him,  stealthily  and 
insensibly,  the  marvellous  beauties  even  of  tlie  most 
commonplace  landscapes  of  Ireland.  The  very  solitude, 
which  had  oppressed  him  with  such  lonely  and  melan- 
choly feelings,  began  to  assume  a  strange  and  singular 
charm.  There  was  a  mysterious  light  over  everything 
that  gave  an  aspect  of  dreamland  and  enchantment,  or 
of  old,  far-off  times,  even  to  the  long,  lonely  fields,  or 
the  dark,  sullen  boghmd.  He  could  not  well  define  it. 
There  was  some  association  haunting  ever>-thing,  inex- 
pressibly sweet,  but  so  vague,  so  elusive,  he  could  not 
define  what  it  was.  The  fields  in  the  twilight  had  a 
curious  colour  or  cloudland  hanging  over  them,  that 
reminded  him  of  something  sweet  and  beautiful  and  far 
away  ;  but  this,  memory  or  imagination  could  never  seize 
and  hold.  And  when,  on  one  of  these  gray  days,  which 
are  so  lovely  in  Ireland,  as  the  light  falls  sombre  and 
neutral  on  all  things,  a  plover  would  sliriek  across  the 
moorland,  or  a  curlew  would  rise  up  and  beat  his  lonely 
way,  complaining  and  afraid,  across  tlie  ashen  sky,  Luke 
would  feel  that  he  had  seen  it  all  before  in  someVaking 
dream  of  childhood  ;  but  all  associations  had  vanished. 
The  magic  of  Nature  alone  remained.  liut  tlie  juoun- 
tains,  the  mountains  haunted  him  perpetually.  He 
never  rose  in  tlie  morning  without  asking.  How  will  my 
mountains  look  to-day?  And  whether  the  great  Artist 
had  drawn  them  far  away  in  a  beautiful  mist  of  jiencilled 
shadow,  and  they  leaned,  like  a  cloud,  on  the  horizon; 
or  brought  them  up  close  and  defiant,  their  blue-black 
faces  seamed  and  jagged,  where  the  yellow  torrents  had 
torn  off  the  soft  peat  covering  and  left  the  yellow  loam 


436  LUKE  DELMEGE 

and  red  pebbles  distinctly  visible,  the  same  dim,  haunt- 
ing memories  hung  around  them,  and  he  asked  himself 
a  hundred  times,  Where  have  I  seen  all  this  before  ? 
And  how  does  Nature,  as  she  pushes  forward  her  moun- 
tains or  withdraws  them,  and  paints  them  every  day 
with  a  different  brush  —  how  does  she  draw  on  the  back- 
ground of  memory  some  shadowy,  elusive  picture,  and 
associate  it  so  strongly  with  that  marvellous  colouring 
on  mountain,  and  cloud,  and  sky  ? 

The  October  of  this  year,  too,  was  a  marvel  of  beauty. 
The  weather  was  so  dry  and  frostless  that  Nature  took 
a  long  time  to  disrobe  herself,  and  she  changed  her  gar- 
ments in  such  beautiful,  varied  ways,  that  the  landscape 
became  a  shiftins^  mass  of  colour.  There  was  no  sun, 
either,  to  make  the  gradual  decay  too  palpable  —  only 
a  hushed,  gray  colour  over  all  the  land.  And  Luke 
watched  the  beautiful  death  from  the  moment  the  chest- 
nut put  out  her  pale,  yellow  leaf,  and  became  a  golden 
blot  on  the  thick  mass  of  foliage,  which  filled  the  entire 
hill  behind  the  village,  until  all  was  over,  and  only  the 
evergreens  vaunted  their  immortality.  Every  day  was 
a  new  pleasure  ;  and  he  began  to  think,  with  some  con- 
tempt, of  long,  dusty  streets,  and  the  stupid  uniformity 
of  houses,  and  the  asphalt  pavements,  and  the  miserable 
patch  of  blue  sky,  which  one  is  privileged  to  see  in  cities. 
And  to  think,  also,  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  the 
populous  deserts  of  civilization,  where  man  is  but  an  exile 
and  a  waif ;  and  the  delightful,  homelike  feeling  in  Ire- 
land, where  you  feel  you  are  always  sitting  by  your 
mother's  hearth ;  and,  come  weal,  come  woe,  this  is 
home,  and  all  around  are  friends  and  lovers. 

And,  as  in  a  happy  home,  the  very  worries  and  vexa- 
tions of  life  have  their  own  charm,  so  Luke  began  to 
find,  in  everyday  simple  and  very  prosaic  experiences,  a 
relief  from  thought  that  was  quite  refreshing. 

It  is  true,  indeed,  that  the  eternal  squabbles  of  the 
kitchen  hurt  his  nerves,  until  he  began  to  find  that  they 
meant  but  little  ;  and  that  the  strong  language  some- 
times used  was  only  the  hyperbole  of  a  people  who  are 


DAGON   DISMEMBERED  437 

used  to  express  themselves  picturesquel3\  When  Maiy 
described  John  as  "  the  most  outrageous  fool  that  the 
Lord  ever  created.  He  don't  know  his  right  hand  from 
his  lef  ;  "  and  when  John  averred  that  '••  Mary  had  the 
worst  tongue  the  Lord  ever  put  tlie  bret'  of  life  in  ;  " 
and  that  her  "  looks  would  peel  potatoes,  and  turn 
sugar  into  vinegar,  and  even  sour  the  crame  in  tlie 
middle  of  winter,"  it  disturbed  Luke  very  much,  until 
he  heard  a  musical  duet  of  laughter  from  the  kitchen 
five  minutes  after,  and  an  experienced  friend  assured 
him  that  it  was  a  sound  maxim  of  domestic  economy 
that  when  the  man  and  the  maid  fell  out,  tiie  master's 
interests  were  safe.  So,  too,  when  approaching  tlie 
stable  in  the  morning  he  heard  unmistakable  sounds  of 
dancing  to  the  everlasting  tune  of  ''  "Welt  the  flure, 
Biddy  McClure,"  and  knew,  by  every  law  of  sense  and 
reason,  that  John  was  practising  a  heel-and-toe  for  tlie 
dance  at  the  cross-roads  the  following  Sunday;  and  when 
he  found  the  said  John,  sitting  demurely  on  a  soap-box, 
and  iH)lishing  the  harness  for  all  it  was  worth,  he  began 
to  think  he  liad  a  Valentine  Vousden  in  disguise. 

"  I  thought  I  heard  the  sounds  of  dancing,"  Luke 
would  say,  in  a  puzzled  manner. 

"•Dancin'?  yer  reverence.  Ye  hard  the  little  mare 
stampin'  her  feet." 

"  Stamping  lier  feet  ?     What  for  ?  " 

"'Tis  a  way  she  has  whin  she's  hungry,"  John  would 
reply.  "  She's  not  aisy  in  her  mind  since  ye  cut  her  all 
her  oats."     And  Luke  wouhl  give  u[)  the  riddle. 

He  found,  too,  that  in  tlic  horticultural  dcj)artmcnt, 
John's  knowledge  was  strictly  limited  to  the  cultivation 
of  potatoes,  and  his  experience  of  flowers  was  equally 
circumscribed.  hi  young  ladies'  ''books  of  confes- 
sions," a  favourite  llower  always  has  a  place,  the  tastes 
varying  from  a  daisy  up  to  an  amaranth.  John  had  his 
favourite  flower,  it  was  the  homely  nasturtium  ;  and 
he  was  so  loyal  to  this  love  that  lie  declined  to  have 
charge  of  the  more  aristocratic  garden-belles  which 
Luke  afl:'ected. 


438  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  It  costs  no  throuble,"  said  John. 

"  It  is  only  a  weed,"  said  Luke. 

"  'Tis  just  as  purty  as  thim  that  must  be  watched 
and  tinded  like  a  baby,"  said  John. 

"  The  very  etymology  of  the  flower  condemns  it," 
said  Luke. 

"  Well,  indeed,  it  hasn't  much  of  a  scint,"  said  John. 

"  I  didn't  mean  that.     I  meant  it  has  a  nasty  name  —  " 

"  There's  many  a  wan  has  a  bad  name  as  doesn't 
deserve  it,"  said  John. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  sympathize  with  John's  tastes. 
It  is  impossible  not  to  feel  a  kind  of  pitying  love  for 
Nature's  homely  creations.  They  are  so  generous,  so 
prodigal  of  their  beauties,  that  one  cannot  help  being 
grateful  ;  and,  like  gipsy-children,  they  thrive  in  all 
weathers  without  care  ;  and  Mother  Nature  loves  them 
because  they  do  credit  to  her  handiwork  without  any 
help  from  the  bungling  and  blundering  hands  of  man. 
There  is  reason  to  fear  that  contempt  is  largely  blended 
with  our  admiration  of  the  Lady  Rose.  She  is  a  petted 
and  spoiled  beauty.  She  must  have  attention  and 
admiration.  She  must  have  her  toilette  carefully  made 
every  morning  ;  and  eheu^  infandum!  she  must  have 
those  ugly  green  parasites  brushed  away  from  her 
lovely  petals  ;  and,  more  dreadful  still,  the  dainty  lady 
has  to  be  fumigated  and  disinfected  ;  and,  with  all,  as 
she  hangs  her  lovely  and  languishing  head  with  rain  or 
dew-pearls  in  her  bosom,  no  bird  or  bee  will  come  nigh 
her.  And  here,  in  the  same  bed,  up  springs  a  hardy 
tramp  of  a  thistle,  and  careless  of  wind  or  rain,  and 
untouched  by  parasites,  he  shoves  his  yellow,  unkempt 
head  above  the  golden  tresses  of  my  rose  ;  and  the 
sparrows  steal  away  his  frowsy  petals,  and  the  bees  find 
something  sweet  deep  down  in  his  scraggy  breast.  Or 
that  insolent,  lawless  beggar,  Robin-run-the-hedge, 
draws  his  ill-smelling  coils  around  the  dainty  lady,  and 
smothers  her  in  his  embraces,  and  mounts  up,  higher 
and  higher,  until  he  flaunts  his  white,  clear  bell  flowers, 
a  summer  anemone,  high  above  the    regal   rose-crests. 


DAGON   DISMEMBERED  439 

Of  course,  the  policeman,  that  is  the  gardener,  conies 
and  carries  off  these  tramps  to  jail  or  death,  —  that's 
the  way  with  the  world  —  the  hardy  child  of  the  people 
must  give  place  to  the  perfumed  and  delicate  aristocrat. 
Nevertheless,  there  are  a  few  that  sympathize  with 
Mother  Nature's  children,  and  amongst  them  may  be 
numbered  .John  and  —  anotlier. 

It  may  be  presumed,  therefore,  that  Luke,  with  his 
passion  for  flowers,  got  little  help,  and  a  consi(lera])le 
amount  of  embarrassment  from  his  gardener.  His 
large  ambition  to  reduce  the  picturesque  irregularities 
of  Irish  life  to  the  dull,  rectanglar  monotony  of  geomet- 
rical perfection,  Avas  here  too,  in  large  measure,  doomed 
to  disappointment.  It  was  quite  useless  to  try  to  per- 
suade John  that  all  this  digging  and  manuring  and  clip- 
ping and  watering  and  cutting  was  recompensed  by  the 
fleeting  beauties  of  what  he  called  "  a  few  posies," 
which  huno-  out  their  fragile  loveliness  and  scented  the 
air  for  a  few  days,  and  then  peevishly  threw  down  their 
pretty  petals  the  moment  a  light  breeze  disturbed  them 
or  a  shower  of  rain  bowed  them  to  the  earth.  Neither 
could  he  see  the  use  of  cutting  flower-beds  into  dia- 
grams of  Euclid  ;  and  his  heart  smote  him  as  he  ran 
the  razored  edges  of  the  lawn-mower  across  the  grass, 
and  all  the  pretty  daisies  lay  decapitated  beneatli  tlie 
ruthless  guillotine. 

"  Begor,"  he  said,  "  the  masther  was  watchin*  all  the 
winther  to  see  the  first  daisy  put  up  her  purty  little 
head  ;  and  you'd  think  lie'd  go  mad  whin  the  first 
primrose  looked  out  of  the  black  earth.  And  here  he's 
now  with  his  :  'John,  cut  down  thim  daisies  ;  '  'Jolni, 
tliat  grass  is  dirty;'  'John,  get  away  thim  weeds.' 
Did  ye  iver  hear  the  likes  of  it  ?  "  And  Jolm  was  dis- 
contented, and  the  "mastlier"  was  in  despair. 

"  Hring  out  the  bulbs  that  you  took  up  last  winter," 
said  Luke,  late  in  the  October  of  this  vear. 

"  What  balls '.^  "  said  John. 

"The  tulip  and  liyacinth  bulbs  which  I  gave  you  to 
put  by  against  the  winter,"  said  Luke. 


440  LUKE  DELMEQE 

John  was  bewildered.  Mary  heard  the  conversation 
and  giggled. 

"  Yer  reverence  giv  me  no  hicense,"  said  John,  fairly- 
puzzled. 

"  I  gave  you  last  May  four  dozen  of  tulips  from  this 
bed,  and  two  dozen  hyacinths  from  these  beds,"  said 
Luke,  angrily  pointing  to  where  the  geraniums  and 
begonias  had  just  been  lifted. 

John  was  still  puzzled.  Then  a  great  light  dawned, 
and  he  looked  at  his  master  with  all  the  compassion  of 
superior  knowledge. 

"Oh  !  thim  inguns,  your  reverence  !  Yerra,  sure  the 
chickens  ate  every  wan  of  thim." 

"  What  ?  "  cried  Luke,  now  thoroughly  angry.  "  Do 
you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  thrown  away  those 
tulips  that  cost  me  four  shillings,  and  those  hyacinths 
that  cost  six  a  dozen  ?  " 

"  Yerra,  not  at  all,"  said  John,  smiling.  "  Sure  ye 
can  get  any  amount  of  thim  up  at  Miss  Smiddy's. 
They're  hanging  in  ropes  from  the  ceiling,  and  they're 
chape  now.     I'll  get  a  dozen  for  ye  for  tuppence." 

Then  Luke  collapsed.  He  was  genuinely  angry ; 
what  florist  would  not  be  ?  And  he  half  made  up  his 
mind  that  John  should  go.  He  was  incorrigible  and 
utterly  incapable  of  being  educated.  After  long  and 
deep  deliberation,  in  which  the  saying  of  a  friend, 
whom  he  had  often  consulted  on  John's  retention  and 
dismissal,  "  If  you  hunt  him,  you'll  only  be  gettin'  a 
bigger  blagard  !  "  came  frequently  uppermost,  he  at  last 
decided  that  he  could  not  stand  this  worry.  He  told 
Mary  that  John  should  go.  Mary  had  been  laughing 
at  John  all  the  morning,  and  had  told  him  several  times 
that  it  was  all  up  now.  The  master  would  never  for- 
give "thim  chewlips."  He  should  go.  Luke  was  sur- 
prised to  find  Mary  bursting  into  an  agony  of  tears, 
and  rushing  wildly  from  the  room.  But  he  was  inex- 
orable. The  misery  was  going  on  too  long  and  should 
be  ended.  He  moved  out  towards  the  stables  with  a 
certain  amount  of  nervousness,  for  he  hated  to  do  an 


DAGON   DISMEMBERED  441 

unkind  thing.  Instead  of  the  usual  patter  of  dancing, 
he  heard  the  sound  as  of  prayer.  He  listened.  John 
was  preparing  for  confession,  and  making  his  examina- 
tion of  conscience  aloud.  Luke  walked  away,  but  he 
was  determined.  When  he  tliought  tlie  examen  was 
over,  he  returned.  John  was  making  his  act  of  con- 
trition. There  was  no  harm  in  listening  there.  The 
voice  came,  broken  with  sobs  —  yea,  the  voice  of  John  ! 
It  said,  amidst  the  weeping  :  — 

What  was  Thine  of  sorrow  and  pain,  O  Thou,  who  in  heaven 
dost  reign, 

O  King,  both  good  and  great; 
It  comes  not  into  my  mind,  the  amount  to  find, 

Nor,  if  found,  could  my  tongue  relate 
The  bitter  anguish  and  smart  of  Thy  Sacred  Heart, 

And  the  spear-cleft  in  Thy  side, 
That  moved  with  a  holy  awe  of  Thy  Sacred  Law 

Even  kings  on  their  thrones  of  pride. 

O  Father!   O  Jesus  mine !  who  by  Thy  Death  Divine 

With  life  our  souls  dost  warm. 
Thou,  in  creation's  hour,  whose  plastic  power 

Made  man  to  Thy  own  blessed  form, 
Is  it  not,  O  Christ !  O  King!  a  cruel,  cruel  thing, 

That  naught  has  been  loved  by  me 
Save  sins  that  the  soul  defile,  save  all  things  base  and  vile, 

That  are  loathsome  unto  Thee  ? 

It  was  the  beautiful  old  lay  of  the  Sacred  ITcart, 
translated  from  tlie  ancient  Irish, ^  and  wliich  John 
had  picked  up  at  the  church  door  and  retained, — as  it 
appealed  strongly  to  his  fancy,  —  as  an  act  of  contri- 
tion. Everytliing  in  prayer  and  proverb  that  rliymes 
or  sings  touches  the  heart  of  Ireland.  And  Luke 
heard  the  sound  of  sobbing  again  as  John  went  over 
the  line  :  — 

Is  it  not,  O  Christ!  O  King!  a  ca-ru-el.  ca-ru-el  thing? 

Then  he  turned  away,  muttering,  Poor  fellow  !  and  Jolin 
was  saved. 

A  few  days  after,  Luke  was  summoned  to  his  mother's 

1  By  D.  F.  McCarthy. 


442  LUKE  DELMEGE 

funeral.  She  had  lingered  en  through  the  summer ; 
and  though  Death  had  taken  up  permanent  lodgings 
in  the  house,  he  was  afraid  to  ask  his  hostess  to  leave 
with  him.  But  one  night  he  stole  through  the  door 
and  a  soul  was  with  him.  The  good  old  mother  had 
passed  away  in  her  sleep  whilst  the  household  slumbered. 
She  was  spared  the  pain  of  weepers  and  watchers  around 
her  as  she  stole  over  the  threshold  and  out  into  the 
night. 

With  all  his  intense  dislike  for  noise,  or  demonstra- 
tion, or  too  much  ceremonial  for  the  dead  or  for  the 
living,  Luke  was  hoping  that  his  mother's  obsequies 
would  be  celebrated  as  quietly  as  possible.  The  last 
wish  of  the  deceased,  "  to  have  a  dacent  funeral,"  did 
not  quite  agree  with  his  instinctive  hatred  of  fuss  and 
noise.  But  the  matter  was  quietly  taken  out  of  his 
hands.  To  his  intense  amazement,  nearly  thirty  priests 
had  assembled  on  the  morning  of  the  funeral.  They 
had  come  from  all  parts  of  the  diocese.  Some  of  them 
Luke  had  never  seen  before.  The  names  of  others 
were  unfamiliar  to  him.  No  matter  !  This  was  a 
priest's  mother.  She  shared  in  the  Levitical  consecra- 
tion of  her  son.  She  should  be  equally  honoured. 
There  was  to  be  a  full  Office  and  Mass  for  the  Dead. 

The  morning  was  wet.  Some  one  said,  "  It  rained 
ramrods."  The  little  sacristy  was  full  of  priests,  whose 
friezes  and  mackintoshes  created  little  lakes  of  water 
everywhere.  Some  had  come  ten  miles,  some  twelve, 
some  even  nineteen,  straight  away  from  the  stations, 
that  last  through  October  and  into  the  first  week  of 
November.  Luke,  touched  to  the  heart,  had  great  pity 
for  them. 

"  We'll  have  but  one  Nocturn,"  he  whispered  to  the 
master  of  ceremonies.  The  latter  went  over  to  the 
Canon,  who  was  to  preside.  He  brought  back  word 
that  the  entire  Office  should  be  sung.  It  was  the  wish 
of  all  the  priests.  And  Father  Daly,  too,  was  one  of 
the  chanters  ;  and  very  beautifully  he  intoned  the  noble 
antiphons   of   the  sublime  Office  of  the  Dead.      The 


DAGON    DISMEMBERED  443 

c2iurch  was  packed  to  its  farthest  extremity  by  a  silent, 
devout  congreg-ation.  From  their  wet,  sodden  clothes 
steamed  up  a  cloud  of  vapour  that  mingled  with  the 
incense  smoke  and  filled  the  entire  church  with  a  heavy 
liaze.  They  too  had  come  from  far  distances  to  testify 
their  reverence  for  the  dead.  And  Luke  remembered 
there,  in  the  dawn  of  his  great  illumination,  that  all 
this  was  slightly  different  from  the  cold,  mechanical 
heartlessness  of  England,  where  the  dead  were  unprayed 
for  and  unremembered ;  and  a  few  black  mourning 
coaches  were  the  only  testimony  of  respect  to  the  lump 
of  clay  which  had  to  be  hustled  from  the  sight  of  the 
living  as  speedily  as  possible. 

The  long  procession  commenced.  Larry,  the  old 
retainer,  jealous  for  the  honour  of  his  family,  counted 
carefully  every  car. 

"  There  wor  wan  liundred  and  thirty,"  he  told  old 
Mike  Delmege  afterwards,  "and  twinty  horsemen. 
There  should  be  wan  hundred  and  thirty-six,  if  she  had 
her  rights,  and  if  thim  who  ought  to  he  there  hadn't 
stopped  away.      But  we'll  remimber  it  for  'em.'" 

Down  came  the  wear}^  Aveary  rain,  as  the  long,  sIoav 
procession  defiled  along  the  slushy  roads.  A  group  of 
beggars  was  assembled  down  near  the  house,  who  gave 
vent  to  their  feelings  in  language  that  was  oidy  meas- 
ured by  gratitude.  True  for  them  !  It  was  never 
known  that  neighbour's  child  was  ever  "  broke  *'  on  that 
farm  ;  or  that  a  beggar  was  ever  turned  from  that  door. 
And  many  a  piece  of  rusty  bacon,  hanging  from  ilie 
ceiling,  and  many  a  huge  semicircle  of  griddle  cake 
disappeared  in  the  wallets  of  the  indigent^  to  the  con- 
sternation of  Nancy,  who  crossed  herself  devoutly  and 
prayed  Heaven  to  guard  tlie  house  against  the  depreda- 
tions of  the  "  good  people." 

Down  still  came  the  rain,  when  the  lonely  procession 
reached  the  Abbey  grounds.  l>ut  no  one  heeded,  ex- 
cept to  repeat  the  distich  :  — 

Ilappv  is  tlie  bride  the  sun  shines  on  ! 
Happy  are  the  deatl  the  rain  rains  on  I 


444  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"When  the  coffin  was  lifted  from  the  bier  on  to  the 
shoulders  of  the  men,  among  whom  there  was  heated 
rivalry  for  the  honour,  the  cortege,  instead  of  moving 
directly  to  the  Abbey  across  a  smooth  pathway,  made 
a  circular  detour  around  the  entire  graveyard.  This 
entailed  much  discomfort  on  priests  and  people,  for  the 
high  grass  was  sodden  with  rain,  and  the  nettles  and 
hemlocks  threw  a  spray  of  crystal  drops  on  the  passers-by. 
And  down  into  hollows,  and  over  the  crests  of  graves, 
and  stumbling  against  fallen  tombstones,  and  falling 
into  pits,  the  priests  and  bearers  went  on,  whilst  the 
mournful  3Iiserere  was  carried  out  in  strong  currents 
of  wind  and  rain  across  the  landscape,  or  echoed  sadly 
over  the  graves  of  thirty  generations  of  the  dead.  No 
matter.  It  was  the  custom  of  the  land,  and  no  power 
on  earth  could  change  the  tradition  of  the  most  con- 
servative people  on  earth.  And  for  the  hundredth  time 
Luke  Delmege  concluded  that  there  was  but  little  use 
in  attempting  to  transplant  foreign  civilizations  here. 
This  race  must  create  or  develop  a  civilization  peculiarly 
its  own. 

When  the  circle  of  priests  was  completed  around  the 
open  grave,  the  Canon  resumed  the  funeral  service. 
Luke  stood  near  him  and  held  his  umbrella  over  the 
old  man's  bare  head.  Just  before  the  Benedictus,  as 
that  glorious  antiphon.  Ego  sum  Resurrectio  et  Vita,  was 
being  chanted,  Luke  resigned  iiis  umbrella  to  a  young 
priest  standing  near  and  went  over  and  stood  by  his 
father,  Avho,  bowed  and  sorrow-stricken,  was  gazing 
mournfully  into  the  open  grave.  And  here  a  sight  met 
his  eyes  which  was  a  shock,  and  then  —  a  revelation. 
The  gloom  which  overhung  the  whole  proceedings  had 
deepened  in  his  soul  into  a  strange  overpowering  mel- 
ancholy, which  the  leaden  skies  and  the  weeping  land- 
scape intensified.  All  through  the  Office  in  the  church 
he  had  tried  to  close  the  eyes  of  his  mind  to  its  terrible 
significance.  The  mournful  music  of  the  Psalms,  with 
their  alternate  cadences  of  grief  and  hope  —  now  sink- 
ing almost  into  despair,  and  then  soaring  aloft  into  an 


I 


DAGON   DISMEMBERED  445 

exaltation  that  seemed  almost  to  presume  too  much  on 
the  Eternal  —  did  not  affect  him  quite  as  deeply  as  the 
lessons  from  the  Book  of  Job,  which,  read  slowly  and 
solemnly  by  dignified  priests,  seemed  to  sound  as  the 
death-bell  of  poor  humanity.  And  all  that  he  liad  ever 
read  in  the  poetry  of  mankind  blended  and  mingled 
with  the  inspired  threnodies  of  the  man  in  the  land  of 
Hus  ;  and  it  was  all,  all  about  the  nothingness  of  man 
and  his  momentary  existence  on  this  planet. 

Remember,  T  beseech  Thee,  that  Thou  hast  made  me  as  the 
clay;  and  Thou  wilt  bring  me  into  the  dust  again.  Hast  thou  not 
milked  me  as  milk,  and  curdled  me  as  cheese?  Against  a  leaf  that 
is  carried  away  by  the  wind,  Thou  sliowest  Thy  power;  and  Thou 
pursuest  a  dry  straw.  Who  cometh  forth  like  a  flower,  and  is 
destroyed,  and  fleeth  as  a  shadow,  and  never  continueth  in  the 
same  state.  I  should  have  been  as  if  I  had  not  been,  carried  from 
the  womb  to  the  grave. 

And  — 

A  little  soul  for  a  little  holds  up  the  corpse  which  is  man. 

And  — 

They  wrought  with  weeping  and  laughter, 

And  fashioned  with  loathing  and  love; 
With  life  before  and  after, 

And  death  beneath  and  above; 
For  a  day  and  a  night  and  a  morrow, 

That  his  strength  might  endure  for  a  span, 
With  travail  and  heavy  sorrow, 

The  holy  spirit  of  man. 

Not  a  word  about  the  "perfect  man"  that  is  to  be,  or 
his  immortality  on  tliis  his  little  theatre  !  Not  a  word 
about  the  '^  deity  in  emln-yo,"  or  the  "slumbering  god- 
head."    He  shall  pass  !   he  shall  pass  !     That  is  all  I 

The  grave  was  dug  close  beneath  the  great  northern 
window  of  tlie  Abbey,  which  almost  fiUed  the  entire 
gable,  its  slender  shafts  holding  aloft,  like  the  stems  of 
candelal)ra,  the  beautiful  tracery  that  spread  itself  into 
flame  shapes,  terminating  in  one  sharp  jet  at  the  apex. 
The  floor  of  the  Abbey  had  been  raised,  in  the  course 
of  centuries,  six  or  seven  feet,  for  only  the  curved  arches 


446  LUKE  DELMEGE 

of  the  sedilia  were  visible  in  the  side  walls  ;  and  Luke, 
staring  into  the  open  grave,  saw  that  it  was  lined  on  all 
sides  with  human  remains.  Brown  bare  skulls  filled 
every  inch  of  its  walls  ;  and  here,  tossed  also  on  the 
grass  were  fragments  and  shells  that  once  held  together 
the  little  pulp  that  makes  man's  body.  Some  one, 
pitying  the  people,  had  ordered  the  coffin  to  be  lowered  ; 
and  the  rude  labourer  who  acted  as  sexton  had  caught 
up  a  handful  of  earth-stained  bones  and  flung  them  into 
the  grave  as  carelessly  as  a  woman  flings  a  handful  of 
twigs  on  her  fire.  Then  he  lightly  kicked  a  large 
round  skull  after  them.  It  fell  with  a  heavy  thud  on 
the  coffin,  turned  up  its  ghastly  visage  and  grinned, 
rolled  over  in  another  somersault,  and  was  finally  jammed 
between  the  angle  of  the  coffin  and  the  brown  walls  of 
the  grave.  There  it  leered  up  hideously  at  the  indiffer- 
ent spectators.  Luke  felt  sick.  Here  was  the  end  of 
all  his  youthful  dreams.  There  lay  the  little  god  of 
this  planet.  And  his  dream  of  Humanity  was  buried 
in  that  grave  where  Dagon  lay  dismembered  before  the 
face  of  the  living  God  ! 

Luke  had  been  quite  unconscious  of  the  singing  of 
the  Benedictus,  so  absorbed  was  he  in  his  reverie.  He 
now  woke  up  to  hear,  in  a  kind  of  triumphant  psean, 
the  words  :  — 

Visitavit  nos,  Oriens  ex  Alto  ! 

The  words  seemed  to  unlock  the  secrets  of  the  grave, 
and  to  open  up  the  far  vistas  that  lay  before  the  fallen 
race.  Oriens  ex  Alto!  Oriens  ex  Alto!  The  far  visions 
of  the  prophets  — the  proximate  revelation  to  the  Father 
of  the  Precursor  —  the  mighty  apparition  of  the  Sacred 
Humanity  seemed  to  hover  over  that  charnel-house  of 
bones  ;  and  Luke  saw,  what  long  ago  he  had  maintained 
as  a  theological  thesis  in  the  halls  of  jNIaynooth,  that 
there  is  but  one,  and  can  be  but  one,  perfected  Human- 
ity ;  and  this  it  is  that  shall  lift  the  whole  race  into 
Itself,  drawing  the  certainties  of  eternity  from  the 
doubts  of  time,  and  out  of  the  despair  of  earth,  deriving 


f 

I 


DAGON   DISMEMBERED  447 

the  hope  and  the  bliss  of  heaven.     "  Seek  ye  the  man 
in  God." 

The  aged  father,  stooped  with  years  and  sorrow,  hung 
over  the  grave  to  the  end.  Then  Luke  gently  raised 
him,  and  offering  the  feeble  limbs  the  support  of  his 
strong  arm,  tliey  moved  towards  the  Abbey  entrance. 
All  else  had  gone  ;  but  there  lingered  a  small  group  of 
peasants  at  tlie  gate  that  led  into  the  inclosure.  Tliey, 
too,  were  sodden  with  wet  and  damp,  and  tiny  rivulets 
of  rain  ran  down  from  their  felt  hats.  Luke,  with  liis 
head  stooped  in  sorrow,  was  about  to  pass  them  without 
noticing  them,  when  one  stepped  forward  shyly  and 
held  out  his  rough  hand. 

"•  We  kem  to  tell  you,  Father  Luke,"  he  said,  "  that 
we  are  sorry  for  your  throuble." 

Luke  grasped  liis  hand,  but  looked  bewildered  at  the 
speaker. 

"I'm  James  McLoughlin,"  the  latter  said;  "you 
remimber,  yer  reverence,  where  we  had  the  little  dissin- 
sion,  you  know  ?  " 

Then  Luke  remembered  his  former  parishioners,  who 
liad  given  him  all  the  trouble,  and  had  procured  his 
dismissal  from  their  parish.  The  poor  fellows,  anxious 
to  make  up  for  past  delinquency,  had  come  across  the 
country  from  a  great  distance  to  testify  their  respect. 
As  Luke  did  not  immediately  respond,  the}'  thought  he 
was  resentful. 

"We  thought  that  bygones  should  be  bygones,  yer 
reverence,"  said  James  lilcLoughlin,  "and  \\f   kem  —  " 

"  Don't  speak  of  it,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Luke.  "  I 
have  long  since  forgotten  and  forgiven  cxerylhiug. 
And  Lm  inlinitelv  oblio-ed  to  you  for  yom-  kindness  in 
coming  so  far  on  such  a  day.  Father,  these  are  my 
former  parishioners,  who  have  come  miles  from  home  to 
attend  mother's  funeral." 

And  they  had  to  go  back  to  Lisnalee  and  were  well 
entertaineii  there.  And  there  is  some  reason  to  fear 
that  the  statutes  of  the  diocese  were  ruthlessly  broken, 
and  Luke  made  no  protest. 


BOOK  V 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 
CREMOXA   AND   CALVARY 

It  was  the  wish  of  the  good  Canon  that  Luke  should 
spend  a  few  days  at  his  rectory.  But^Luke  preferred 
Seaview  Cottage.  The  Canon  was  always  courteous, 
kind,  hospitable.  Father  Martin  was  always  outspoken, 
sometimes  even  brusque.  Yet  Luke  preferred  the  easy 
comfort  of  Seaview  Cottage,  even  though  it  sometimes 
blew  heavy  guns,  to  the  calm,  untroubled  dignity  of  the 
rectory.  The  best  of  men  like  an  arm-chair  and  the 
luxury  of  crossed  legs.  Yet  the  atmospliere  even  of 
the  sunny  library  was  sombre  these  dark  days.  It  was 
only  lighted  by  the  eyes  of  Tiny  and  the  laughter  of 
Tony.  Some  time  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  before 
ihey  were  dismissed  to  bed,  the  former,  after  a  long 
and  careful  study  of  the  grave,  solemn  stranger,  drew 
a  chair  silently  behind  his,  mounted  on  it,  and  flung 
her  arms,  and  closed  them,  like  a  spring,  around  Luke's 
neck.      He  drew  the  child  around  and  kissed  lier. 

"  There's  somethin'  hurtin'  you  dere,"  said  the  child, 
pc^inting  to  liis  breast  pocket. 

"True,  Mignon,"  he  said,  drawing  out  a  bundle  of 
letters,  wliich  in  all  his  hurry  he  had  ])rought  from 
liome  unopened.  He  had  now  leisure.  Tlie  lirst  was 
from  his  Bishop. 

"  A  letter  of  condolence  !  "  conjectured  Luke.  As 
he  read  it,  his  face  fell.  He  handed  the  document  to 
Father  Martin.  It  was  a  gentle  repiiniand  ;  but  it 
was  a  reprimand,  and  a  Bisho[)'s  words  cut  like  an  acid. 
Luke  had  been  reported  to  liis  Bishop  for  not  only  per- 
mitting, but  even  encouraging,  proselytism  in  his  par- 

461 


452  LUKE  DELMEGE 

ish.  The  matter  had  been  referred  to  his  parish  priest, 
who  tried  to  extenuate  it.  Nevertheless,  the  facts 
remained  ;  and  the  Bishop  warned  Luke  to  be  more 
circumspect  in  future. 

"I  am  hopelessly  doomed,"  said  Luke,  "to  desire 
what  is  good,  and  to  accomplish  the  reverse." 

"You  look  too  much  to  principles  —  too  little  to 
men  !  "  replied  Father  Martin. 

"  Could  anything  be  better  than  to  seek  to  reconcile 
and  make  mutually  tolerant  and  helpful  the  two  great 
classes  in  this  country  ?  Surely,  it  is  the  only  solution 
of  this  apparently  insoluble  problem." 

"  Quite  so.  But  did  you  ever  consider  that  in  this 
attempt  you  are  seeking  to  reconcile  not  only  interests 
which  are  hopelessly  conflicting,  but  the  very  spirits  of 
affirmation  and  negation  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  see  it,"  said  the  bewildered  Luke. 

"  Don't  you  see  the  gist  of  this  complaint  ? "  said 
Father  Martin.  "  The  people  object  to  the  dethrone- 
ment of  their  saints  and  heroes.  These  stand  to  them 
in  the  light  of  the  embodiment  of  a  great  idea  or  prin- 
ciple. It  is  an  affirmation  that  there  have  been,  and 
therefore  there  can  be  again,  heroism,  bravery,  truth, 
in  this  weary  world.  Now,  your  fine  ladies  come,  and 
with  the  best  intentions  introduce  the  spirit  of  denial. 
'Who  art  thou?  What  is  thy  name?'  said  the  stu- 
dent to  the  Spirit  of  Evil.  '  I  am  the  Spirit  that  denies,' 
was  the  answer.  And  the  little  poodle  of  Reformation 
heresy  that  has  been  running  around  in  circles  for  the 
last  three  hundred  years  has  now  swollen  into  the  big 
monster  behind  the  stove.  And  out  of  the  swollen 
monster.  Materialism,  and  to  the  music  of  the  spirits 
of  Poetry  and  the  Fine  Arts,  steps  the  urbane,  cultured 
scholar,  who  makes  his  bow  :  '  I  am  the  Spirit  who 
denies  !  '  " 

Luke  shuddered. 

"  And  yet,"  he  said,  "  there  are  the  sweetest,  beauti- 
fullest  souls  I  ever  met  over  there  across  the  border. 
Oh,  what  a  riddle,  what  a  puzzle  !  " 


f 


CREMONA  AND  CALVARY        453 

■'  Well,  don't  puzzle  !  "  said  the  matter-of-fact  Father 
Martin.  "Keep  close  to  your  own  people  —  the  peo- 
ple of  eternity  !  Let  alone  the  sons  and  daughters  ol 
men  !  " 

"  The  people  of  eternity  !  "  Yes,  indeed  !  so  they 
are,  as  Luke  was  every  day  more  fully  ascertaining. 
Time  and  the  world  were  nothing  to  his  race,  who 
seemed  to  look  at  everything  as  if  they  themselves  were 
already  disembodied. 

Luke  sat  in  the  dim  sacristy  of  Rossmore  on  the  even- 
ing of  All  Saints'  —  the  eve  of  All  Souls'  Day.  A 
long  list  lay  before  him  —  the  names  of  the  departed, 
who  were  to  be  prayed  for  on  the  morrow.  The  sacristy 
was  filled  with  an  eager  crowd,  and  there  was  a  mur- 
mur of  voices  outside.  One  by  one  they  came  to  the 
table,  laid  down  the  little  offering,  and  with  scrupulous 
exactness  had  the  names  of  the  deceased  registered. 
There  Avere  tears  on  many  faces,  and  many  broken  voices 
repeated  the  names  of  the  dead,  and  always  with  a 
note  of  gratitude  and  respect.  And  not  only  relatives, 
but  even  the  mere  passing  acquaintances  of  life,  were 
remembered. 

"  For  me  poor  boy,  yer  reverence,  that's  lyin'  out  on 
the  snows  of  the  Ilimalees." 

*••  For  the  good  father  that  reared  me,  and  brought 
me  up  clane  and  dacent." 

"  For  the  poor  sowl,  yer  reverence,  that's  in  the  great- 
est howlt." 

Luke  put  down  his  pen. 

"Any  relation  of  your  own?  "  It  was  his  first  blunder. 
He  was  coming  round. 

"  Faix,  it  niiglit  be,  yer  reverence.  How  do  T  know  ? 
But  no  mattlicr  wlio  it  is  —  if  it  wor  tlie  blackest  stran- 
ger from  (xalway,  so  long  as  tliey  want  it." 

Luke  wrote  down  his  own  translation. 

"  For  Mary  Carmody,  yer  reverence,"  said  a  voice  in 
a  whisper,  that  was  made  still  more  gentle  by  the  hood 
of  the  shawl  wra})[)ed  around  tlic  face. 

"  Your  sister  ?  "  said  Luke. 


454  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  Yerra,  not  at  all,  yer  reverence  !  But  a  poor  cra- 
chure,  that  we  picked  out  of  the  sthreets.  The  old 
boy  had  his  glaum  upon  her  ;  but  faix,  we  chated  him 
in  the  ind." 

"  For  me  cummerade,  Mike  Mulcahy,  yer  reverence," 
said  a  stalwart  pensioner,  putting  his  hand  to  his  fore^ 
head. 

"  Killed  ?  "  said  Luke,  who  never  wasted  words. 

"  Begor,  he  was,  yer  reverence,"  said  the  pensioner, 
settling  down  for  a  long  narrative,  and  utterly  heedless 
of  the  fifty  or  sixty  persons  who  were  waiting  behind 
him,  and  who  had  heard  the  story  a  hundred  times. 
"  It  was  in  the  Crimee,  before  Sebastopool,  and  we  were 
lyin'  in  the  trinches  up  to  our  nicks  in  mud  ;  and  the 
Rooshian  shells  flyin'  over  our  heads,  like  a  flock  of 
crows  cummin'  home  of  an  evenin'.  'Look,'  sez  I,  'an' 
put  up  yer  head.'  '  There's'n  room,' sez  he.  'Niver 
min',  so,'  sez  I  ;  and  shure  I'm  thankin'  the  good  God 
every  day  since,  that  I  didn't  sind  him  to  his  death. 
'  They're  quiet  now,'  sez  he,  '  and  here  goes  !  '  '  What 
did  ye  see  ?  '  sez  I.     No  answer.     '  What  did  ye  see  ?  ' 

sez  I  agin.     No  answer.     '  What  did  ye  see,  ye of 

an  omadhaun,'  sez  I.  No  answer.  I  looked  round.  His 
head  was  blown  clane  away.  There  was  nothin'  left 
but  from  his  nick  down,  and  —  " 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  said  Luke,  seeing  the  impatience  of 
the  crowd.     "  Well,  I  hope  he  was  prepared." 

"  Prepared  ?  Faix,  he  was.  We  all  wint  to  confes- 
sion a  few  days  before  to  Father  Walsh." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  you'll  do,"  said  Luke.  "  I  cannot 
afford  to  lose  any  of  that  story.  Will  you  call  at  my 
house  to-morrow  night,  and  let  me  hear  the  whole  thing 
from  beginning  to  end  ?  " 

"  Faix,  I  will,  with  jjleasure,"  said  the  good  pen- 
sioner ;  and  he  went  away  with  his  head  in  the  air,  six 
inches  higher  for  the  honour.  He  always  spoke  of  Luke 
after  the  interview  as  "  me  friend,  Father  Luke,"  add- 
ing :  "  That's  the  kind  of  min  they  want  as  army 
chaplains.  If  the  Juke  knew  him,  he'd  have  him  in 
Aldershot  in  a  mont'." 


CREMONA  AND  CALVARY        455 

"  For  me  parents,  and  decased  friends,"  said  a  strong, 
rough  man,  who  spoke  in  a  rather  superior  manner,  as 
if  he  were  offended  by  the  want  of  tact  shown  by  liis 
predecessor.     Luke  wrote  the  names. 

"  Put  down  now,  yer  reverence,"  said  the  man,  "  the 
name  of  Martin  Connolly,  soldier  of  the  Federal  Army, 
wdio  died  from  wounds  received  in  the  gallant  charge 
of  the  Irish  Brigade  at  Fredericksburg." 

"  That's  hardly  necessary,"  said  Luke. 

"  Oh,  but  it  is,  yer  reverence.  I  want  me  poor  cum- 
merade  to  get  his  rights  in  the  next  world,  as  he  didn't 
get  them  in  this." 

"  That  was  Meagher's  Brigade,"  said  Luke,  in  a  mo- 
ment of  forgetfulness  and  enthusiasm. 

The  poor  soldier  smiled,  drew  himself  up  erect,  and 
put  out  his  right  hand. 

"  Ah,  you  know  it,  yer  reverence.  God  bless  you  ! 
Put  the  hand  there  !  " 

Luke  placed  his  hand  in  the  big,  broad  palm.  The 
old  man  raised  it  reverently,  and  kissed  it. 

"  Put  down  the  sowl  of  Thomas  Francis  Meagher, 
there,  yer  reverence,"  said  he,  sobbing.  "  Sure  it  isn't 
I  should  forget  him.  I  was  as  near  to  him  as  to  j-er 
reverence  this  minit  on  that  day.  'Boys,'  sez  he,  '  re- 
mimber  who  ye  are  !  Sure  'tis  Fm  the  proud  man  to 
be  lading  to  death  or  victory  the  bravest  and  best  min 
in  tlic  Federal  Army.  Bo3-s,'  sez  he,  here's  your  flag, 
don't  disgrace  it  !  I  wish  to  God,  boys,'  sez  he,  '  tluit 
I  had  ye  on  the  slopes  of  Slievnamon.  Wonkln't  we 
make  the  redcoats  fly?'  He  stop[)ed  tliin,  as  if  lie  wor 
tliinkin'  of  ould  times  and  cummerades.  'Dinipsey,' 
sez  he  to  the  bandmaster,  'play  u^)  l)rian  Boru's  march. 
Slope  arms,  four  deep  —  forward  I  '  And  on  we  wint 
to  our  death.  Father  Walsh,  not  this  man's  Fatlier 
Walsh,"  he  said,  jerking  his  hand  contemptuously  at 
the  last  iKMisioner,  "but  our  own  Fatlier  Walsh  — God 
be  wid  him,  he  was  the  fine  man  —  sat  on  his  horse,  as 
we  passed  by.  He  was  a  big  man,  wid  a  big  black 
beard,  and  he  was  risin'  his  hand  over  us,  as  we  marched 


456  LUKE  DELMEGE 

past.  I  put  me  hand  on  his  knee,  and  sez  I,  '  Father,' 
sez  I,  'gi'  me  a  double  blessin',  for  I'm  a  double  blag- 
ard.'  He  laughed,  poor  man,  'twas  the  last  we  seen  of 
him.  For  we  weren't  twinty  minits  in  the  field,  thryin' 
to  take  that  hill  (sure  we  might  as  well  be  thryin'  to 
take  the  gates  of  Heaven),  whin  down  I  wint,  with  a 
splinter  of  a  shell  in  me  calf;  and  down  wint  poor 
Martin,  with  a  bullet  in  his  left  lung.  We  wor  out  on 
the  field,  all  night  in  the  cowld,  watchin'  the  stars, 
widout  a  bit,  bite,  or  sup,  only  the  wounded  moanin' 
and  groanin'  all  around  us.  About  twelve,  we  saw 
lights  ;  and  whin  they  kem  near  enough,  we  saw  they 
wor  the  Confederate  ginerals  come  out  to  see  after  their 
own.  '  Here  goes,'  says  Martin,  shovin'  in  a  cartridge  ; 
'  one  shot  at  the  rebelly  rascals,  and  thin  I  die  aisy.' 
'  Dang  yer  sowl,  ye  ruffian,'  sez  I,  and  'twasn't  that  I 
said  ayther,  yer  reverence,  — '  do  ye  want  to  go  before 
God  wid  murder  on  your  sowl  ?  '  '  They  killed  many  a 
brave  man  to-day,'  sez  he,  spittin'  blood.  '  Fair  play  is 
bonny  play,  sez  I,'  taking  the  rifle  from  the  ruffian.  An' 
shure,  if  he  fired  that  shot,  yer  reverence,  all  the  rebels 
in  camp  wud  be  among  us  in  a  minit,  stabbin'  and 
shootin'  like  the  divil.  But,  Fm  afeared  I'm  delayin' 
the  nabours,"  he  said,  turning  round,  "  that  ould  Cri- 
mean pinsioner  kep  ye  sich  a  long  time." 

"  This  offering  's  too  much  for  you,"  said  Luke,  push- 
ing back  a  half-orown.     "I'll  keep  just  half." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  yer  reverence,"  said  the  old  man, 
pushing  the  coin  back  again.  "  We're  not  like  these 
poor  English  angashores  —  on  sixpence  a  day." 

He  passed  out  triumphant,  though  limping  from  that 
splintered  shell.  In  a  few  minutes  he  returned,  and 
pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd  of  women  to  the 
table. 

"  I  thought  you  might  be  forgettin',  your  reverence. 
Did  you  put  down,  Martin  Connolly,  soldier  in  the 
Federal  Army,  who  died  of  gunshot  wounds,  received 
in  action  —  " 

"  It's  all  right,  it's  all  right  !  "  said  Luke. 


CREMONA  AND  CALVARY        457 

"  And    Thomas    Francis    Meagher,    Brigadier    Gin- 

al  — " 

"  'Tis  all  right,  'tis  all  right  !  "  said  Luke. 


It  was  a  gloomy  night,  starless  and  moonless,  and 
with  a  heavy  black-brown  pall,  as  of  faded  velvet,  hang- 
ing down  over  the  world,  as  Luke  passed  out  from  the 
iron  gate,  and  picked  his  steps  carefully  down  the  un- 
even ways  of  the  village  street.  He  had  passed  up 
through  his  little  garden,  and  was  placing  his  latch-key 
in  the  door,  when  he  became  aware  of  a  stooped,  huml)le 
figure,  evidently  waiting  for  him  near  the  doorway. 
The  figure,  silently  and  uninvited,  followed  him  into 
the  lighted  hall. 

"  I  have  made  bould  to  call  on  yer  reverence,"  said 
the  voice,  the  voice  of  a  wizened  old  woman,  whose  face 
and  figure  were  hidden  under  a  mass  of  clothes. 

"  Well,  my  poor  woman,  and  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 
s-aid  Luke. 

"•  I  had  nothin'  to  offer  you,"  she  said,  "  and  I  didn't 
like  to  be  seen  in  the  vesthry  ;  but  if  your  reverence 
would  remimber  in  the  Mass  the  sowl  of  Father 
O'Donnell  — " 

''  Father  O'Donnell  ?  Father  O'Donnell  ?  "  said  Luke. 
"I  never  heard  the  name." 

"  Av  coorse  you  didn't,  yer  reverence,"  she  said. 
"  You're  too  young,  God  bless  you  !  He's  dead  these 
forty  years.  'Twas  T  nursed  him  in  his  last  sickness, 
and  he  used  to  say,  '  Nellie,  don't  you  forget  me  in  your 
Masses  and  prayers  !  The  people  think  that  we  have 
no  purgatory  ;  but  tliey  don't  know  what  a  hard  judg- 
ment we  have  for  all  the  graces  we  get  I '  I  remimber 
the  words  well.  An'  sure,  if  anny  wan  ever  desarvod 
Heaven,  it  was  you,  me  poor,  dear  priest  !  But  I  have 
never  forgotten  thim  words :  an'  I  never  left  an  All 
Sowls'  Night  pass  without  gettin'  him  mintioned  in  the 
Blessed  Mass." 

"  It  shall  be  done,  my  poor  woman,"  said  Luke, 
affectionately. 


458  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  God  bless  yer  reverence  !  "  she  said,  humbly  passing 
out  into  the  night. 

And  Luke  sat  down  near  his  parlour  fire.  He  didn't 
read.  He  had  many  things  to  think  of.  Thought, 
after  a  little  while,  became  unbearable.  He  put  on  his 
biretta,  and  stepped  out  on  his  little  garden  walk.  The 
night  was  extremely  dark,  and  here  and  there  a  light 
shone  in  the  village.^  And,  far  above  the  village,  out 
of  the  black  breast  of  darkness,  there  gleamed  the  lights 
of  the  Lodge.  The  wind  was  moaning  dismally  ;  but 
it  was  a  warm  wind  ;  and  if  one  could  believe  that 
spirits  in  pain  seek  their  places  on  earth  to  do  penance 
for  their  transgressions,  and  to  ask  the  alms  of  prayers 
for  atonement,  it  would  not  be  hard  to  realize  that  the 
heavens  and  the  earth  were  haunted  this  eerie  night, 
and  that  the  pitiful  prayer,  Miseremini  mei!  miseremini 
mei!  was  the  burden  of  the  wailing  wind.  But  it  was 
not  this,  but  the  pathetic  remembrance  of  the  dead 
by  these  poor  people  that  affected  Luke  deeply.  He 
thought  of  his  sister's  words  :  "  Luke  dear,  love  the 
poor,  and  life  will  be  all  sunshine."  And  he  did  love 
them  :  loved  them  deeply,  earnestly  ;  but  in  that  hard, 
mechanical  way,  that  never  touches  their  hearts.  He  I 
wanted  to  lift  them  up  ;  and  lo  !  there  they  were  on 
the  summits  of  the  eternal  hills  far  above  him.  He 
desired  to  show  them  all  the  sweetness  and  light  of  life  ; 
and  behold,  they  were  already  walking  in  the  gardens 
of  eternity  !  He  was  preaching  the  thrift  of  money  to 
the  misers  of  grace.  Where  was  the  use  of  talking 
about  economizing  to  a  people  whose  daily  fancies 
swept  them  abroad  to  regions  where  Time  was  never 
counted  ?  And  the  value  of  money  to  a  race,  who,  if 
parsimonious  and  frugal,  became  so  through  a  contempt 
of  physical  comfort,  and  who  regarded  the  death  of  the 
rich  man  as  the  culmination  of  all  earthly  misfortune  ? 
Then  it  began  to  dawn  upon  Luke's  reason  that  it  was 
moral,  not  altogether  economic,  causes  that  were  driving 

1  In  Ireland,  lights  are  kept  burning  all  night  on  All  Souls'  Eve,  as 
on.  Christmas  Eve. 


CREMONA  AND  CALVARY         459 

the  people  from  their  motherland.  They  were  bitten 
by  the  dogs  of  Mammon  here  and  there,  and  the  unrest, 
that  sought  peace  and  pleasure  in  the  saloon,  and  the 
electric-lighted  streets,  and  the  music-hall,  and  the 
theatre.  And  he  began  to  understand  what  was  meant 
when  his  confreres  spoke  of  the  creation  of  a  new  civili- 
zation, founded  on  Spartan  simplicity  of  life,  and  Chris- 
tian elevation  of  morals,  and  the  uplifting  to  the  higher 
life,  to  which  all  the  aspirations  of  his  race  tended,  in- 
stead of  the  steady  downward  degradation  that  was  cer- 
tain to  ensue,  if  tlie  new  dogmas  of  mere  materialism, 
founded  on  the  i)urely  natural  virtues,  were  allowed  to 
supplant  the  larger  lights  of  the  Gospel,  and  the  sacred 
doctrines  that  set  at  utter  naught  all  the  ordinary  dic- 
tates of  selfish  ])rudence  and  purely  temporal  ambitions. 
And  if  for  a  moment  his  old  ideas  returned  of  a  race 
self-seeking,  prudential,  hard-hearted,  and  endowed  with 
all  the  virtues  of  the  fox  and  the  squirrel,  and  his  reason 
cried,  Utopia,  Utoj)ia  I  to  the  creation  of  a  spiritual  King- 
dom —  well,  here  were  the  voices  of  the  night,  Miseremini 
mei!  miseremini  mei!  the  children  of  eternity  crying  to 
the  children  of  time  for  the  alms  of  prayer  and  sacrifice. 
Luke  was  extremely  busy  this  week.  He  had  no 
time  to  prepare  a  sermon  for  Sunday.  He  had  ex- 
hausted all  his  political  economy  ;  and  he  was  beginning 
to  tire  of  it.  Saturday  evening  came.  He  had  returned 
from  his  confessional;  and  he  was  depressed.  Here, 
too,  he  was  slnmned  by  the  people.  Notliing  used  ]>ain 
him  so  deeply  as  when  entering  the  churcli  on  Satur- 
days or  the  eves  of  holidays,  he  saw  his  own  confessional 
deserted,  and  a  great  crowd  around  tlie  old  pastor's 
"box";  and  the  little  childriMi,  even,  wliom  he  loved 
so  much,  would  hold  down  their  heads,  half  afraid  to 
be  seen,  or  wouhl  look  up  with  a  shy,  furtive  glance 
at  the  grave,  solemn  curate.  He  could  not  understand 
it.  He  was  always  kind,  gentle,  merciful  to  penitents. 
Why  was  lie  sliunncd  ?  He  had  lost  the  key  of  the 
supernatural;  and  he  didn't  know  it.  One  word  about 
grace  and   eternity  ;    about    the  Sacred   Heart  or   the 


460  LUKE  DELMEGE 

Precious  Blood  ;  about  the  Virgin  Mother  or  St.  Joseph, 
would  have  opened  floodgates  of  sorrow  and  love.  Nay, 
if  lie  had  scolded  them,  and  abused  them,  for  their  soul's 
sake,  they  would  have  loved  him.  But  goodness  for 
prudence'  sake  —  virtue,  because  it  was  a  paying  trans- 
action in  the  long  run,  they  could  not  well  grasp  ;  and 
all  his  exhortations  fell,  dry  and  withered,  on  hearts 
that  thirsted  for  higher  things. 

He  took  up  a  newspaper  this  evening.  There  was  a 
brief  account  of  a  certain  battle  that  had  been  fought 
some  centuries  ago,  in  far  Cremona.  The  details 
amused  him  —  they  were  so  characteristic.  He  laid 
down  the  paper. 

"  By  Jove  I  "  he  said.  "  I  will.  I'll  preach  on 
Cremona  and  Calvary  I  " 

He  did  ;  but  it  cost  him  a  tremendous  effort.  He 
had  trained  liimself  so  perfectly  to  self-restraint,  par- 
ticularly in  his  language,  that  his  measured  words  fell, 
at  first,  on  a  cold  and  unsympathetic  audience.  He  in- 
troduced the  subject  in  connection  with  the  great  AH 
Souls'  Feast,  which  had  just  passed.  He  wished  to  prove 
that  love  for  the  dead  was  always  a  characteristic  of  the 
race  ;  that  soldiers  j)rayed  for  dead  comrades  —  ay,  even 
for  the  enemy  they  had  destroyed.  Then  he  spoke  of 
Cremona ;  of  the  two  regiments,  Dillon's  (the  old  Mount- 
cashel  Brigade)  and  Burke's,  that  were  quartered  in  the 
city.  He  drew  a  picture  of  the  great  French  army, 
asleep  in  the  famous  Italian  city  —  the  stealthy  ajiproach 
of  the  enemy  —  their  successful  entry  —  their  bivouac 
on  the  square  while  the  garrison  slept.  The  congrega- 
tion woke  up  at  the  old  familiar  names  —  Dillon,  Burke, 
Mountcashel.  The  U.  S.  pensioner  and  the  Crimean 
veteran  rose  in  their  seats.  And  as  Luke  went  on  to 
describe  the  reveille  at  midnight,  the  sleepers  aroused 
from  dreams  to  the  terrible  cry  :  "  Tlie  enemy  is  upon 
us  !  "  the  sudden  rush  for  arms,  and  then  the  mighty 
valour  with  which  the  two  Irish  regiments,  in  very  pro- 
nounced undress,  flung  tliemselves  unaided  on  the  foe, 
and  drove  them  beyond  the  walls,  and  then  drew  up  at 


i 


CREMONA  AND  CALVARY        461 

the  bridge-gate  that  commanded  the  town  entrances, 
and  drove  back  charge  after  charge  of  the  cuirassiers, 
—  and  all  this,  while  their  marshal  was  in  the  hands  of 
the  enemy,  —  he  let  himself  go,  the  first  time  for  many 
years,  and  painted  with  all  the  emphasis  of  Celtic  imagi- 
nation the  valour  of  this  remnant  of  the  Irish  Brigade. 
There  was  a  broad  smile  on  the  faces  of  the  people  as 
he  spoke  of  the  deshabille  and  unfinished  toilettes  of 
these  Irish  exiles ;  but  when  he  went  on  to  describe 
how,  after  the  battle,  the  victors  went  out  to  bury  the 
dead,  and  found  some  hundreds  of  their  fellow-country- 
men amongst  the  Austriaus,  who  had  fallen  under  their 
own  fire,  and  how  they  knelt  and  prayed  over  the  dead, 
and  then  built  a  mighty  cross  over  their  remains,  Celtic 
fire  yielded  to  Celtic  sorrow  ;  and  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life,  Luke  saw  tears  on  the  faces  of  his  audience. 
He  went  on  to  speak  of  the  Calvaries  that  were  every- 
where erected  in  Catholic  countries  on  the  Continent  — 
by  the  wayside,  on  mountain  summits,  at  the  corners  of 
streets;  and  he  expressed  great  surprise  that  in  a  Cath- 
olic country  like  Ireland,  such  manifestations  of  faith 
and  piety  were  almost  unknown.  He  closed  his  dis- 
course by  a  homily  on  death — his  own  recent  bereave- 
ment adding  pathos  to  his  words — and  turned  to  the 
altar,  with  a  full  heart. 

The  first  fruit  of  his  sermon  was  visible  in  an  ex- 
cellent dinner.  Mary's  temper  was  variable  ;  and  her 
moods  affected  her  cuisine.  This  day,  she  did  not 
know  whether  to  laugli  or  to  cry.  The  picture  of 
these  Irish  fellows  rusliing  straight  from  their  beds  at 
the  foe,  and  driving,  half  armed  and  unarmoured,  four 
thousand  (iermans  from  the  city,  tickled  her  fancy. 
Then,  the  tliouglit  of  Luke's  mother  (to  whose  death  he 
had  delicately  alluded)  subduetl  her  ;  but  she  walked 
on  air  all  that  day  ;  and  Luke  saw  delicacies  whose  very 
names  were  unknown  to  him.  And  Mary  told  .lohii 
confidentially  :  — 

"  I  knew  tlie  masther  was  always  right  ;  but  priests 
can't  talk  out  their  minds,  like  common  people.'' 


462  LUKE  DELMEGE 

There  was  a  vast  and  sudden  change,  too,  in  the  atti- 
tude of  the  great  bulk  of  the  parishioners.  Instead  of 
the  shy,  furtive  looks  —  half-frightened,  half -respectful 
—  men  walked  up  to  him  with  a  certain  gay  freedom, 
and  accosted  him.  Some  ventured  so  far  as  to  say,  with 
a  cheery  smile,  "  A  fine  day,  Father  Luke  !  "  And  the 
women  courtesied,  and  whispered  :  "  God  bless  your 
reverence  every  day  you  live ! " 

The  village  butcher,  who  held  very  strong  National 
principles,  and  who  was  usually  taciturn,  if  not  surly, 
towards  Luke,  grew  suddenly  familiar.  And  sweet- 
breads, and  liver,  and  kidneys  began  to  pour  into  Luke's 
larder.  And  from  afar,  poor  women  brought  in  their 
early  turkeys,  for  which  they  could  get  ten  shillings  a 
pair,  and  the  yard  became  melodious  with  the  cackling. 
And  now,  when  he  passed  the  young  men  on  their  Sun- 
day walks,  or  going  to  work,  instead  of  the  silent,  cold 
reverence  of  old  with  which  they  doffed  their  hats  as 
they  passed  by,  there  was  assumed  a  certain  jaunt}^  air 
of  familiarity ;  and  with  it,  a  sort  of  confidential  smile, 
as  if  they  would  say  :  "  Well,  your  reverence,  it  was  a 
good  joke — that  of  those  Irish  sa7is-culottes,  tearing 
like  mad  through  the  streets  and  squares  of  Cremona." 

About  a  fortnight  after,  as  Luke  was  going  out  to 
say  last  Mass,  he  thought  he  saw  something  unusual  in 
the  landscape.  He  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  scrutinized 
carefully  every  minute  feature,  now  so  well  known  to 
him.  At  last  he  discovered  the  novelty.  Beyond  the 
red  tiles  of  the  village  roofs  stretched  the  precipitous 
slope  of  woodland  and  forest  in  which  the  Lodge  nes- 
tled. The  Lodge  was  hardly  visible  in  summer,  so 
thick  was  the  foliage  of  beeches,  and  oaks,  and  elms. 
But  there  was  always  visible  a  white  pencil  of  a  flag- 
staff, crossed  by  ayardarm,  and  netted  with  white  ropes. 
The  gilt  ball  on  its  summit  glittered  whenever  the  sun 
shone  ;  and,  when  the  General  was  at  home,  the  red  flag 
of  England  gleamed  like  a  flame  of  fire  against  the  black 
foliage.  Sometimes  it  was  the  Union  Jack,  sometimes 
the  flag  of  an  admiral  of  the  high  seas,  sometimes  one 


I 


I 


CREMONA  AND  CALVARY         463 

symbol,  sometimes  another  ;  but  always  the  flag  of  Eng- 
land. And  some  of  the  villagers  passed  it  by  unnoticed, 
and  some  stared  at  it  curiously  ;  and  some,  especially 
on  days  wlien  the  staff  was  garlanded  by  all  the  Hag 
signals  in  the  British  Navy,  cursed  low  and  deep  at  the 
symbol  of  their  subjection.  This  day,  it  was  a  gleam  of 
red,  against  the  deep  umbers  and  ochres  of  the  autumn 
woods  ;  and  right  behind  it,  and  cresting  the  summit  of 
the  hill,  and  clearly  outlined  against  the  gray  sky,  was 
an  immense  black  cross.  Luke  rubbed  his  eyes  again, 
and  called  Mary. 

"  Do  you  see  anything  strange  there  right  over  the 
Lodge  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Where,  your  reverence  ?  "  said  Mary,  smiling,  and 
looking  everywhere  but  in  the  right  direction.  She  had 
been  in  the  secret  for  the  last  fortniglit. 

"  There,"  said  Luke,  pointing.  ""  There  seems  to  be 
something  unusual  against  the  horizon-line." 

"  Oh  !  so  there  is,"  said  Mary,  slowly  making  the  dis- 
covery.    "Tliere's  something  like  a  cross." 

Tlien  Luke  saw  that  Mary  was  smiling. 

After  Mass,  Luke  strolled  around  the  road  that  swept 
through  the  village  and  ran  behind  the  General's  demesne 
even  to  the  summit.  On  the  highest  point  of  the  hill 
the  road  cut  off  the  demesne  fn)in  the  farms  that  were 
in  the  vicinity.  And  inside  a  hawthorn  hedge  and 
beyond  the  General's  jurisdiction  ^^■as  a  mighty  cairn  nf 
stones,  moss-grown,  and  lichen-covered,  and  dating  fri)m 
Druid  times.  It  was  visible  f(n-  miles  around,  and  was 
still  known  as  Knockane-na-Coppaleen,  the  Little  Hill  of 
tlie  Little  Horses.  No  one  dared  touch  it,  though  it 
was  Mell  known  that  gold  was  piled  beneath  ;  for  didn't 
Farmer  Maliony,  a  hard  unbeliever,  once  remove  a  few 
stones  from  the  cairn  to  rei)air  a  ditch,  and  wasn't  he 
struck  dead  on  tlie  spot  ?  and  weren't  the  stones  brought 
back  to  the  cairn  by  invisible  hands  ?  Yet  it  couhl  hurt 
no  one  to  place  the  all-con(;[uering  Sign  there  —  and 
there  it  was,  cresting  the  cairn,  an  immense  cross,  witli 
the  spear  and  sponge,  and  a  crown  of  real  thorns  hang- 


464  LUKE  DELMEGE 

ing  in  the  centre.  Luke  gazed  long  at  the  mighty 
symbol  ;  then,  turning  round,  he  noticed  that  the  turf 
or  grass  surface  had  been  removed  in  regular  patches 
on  the  face  of  the  high  slope.  He  moved  down,  far 
down,  and  then  looked  upward.  Yes  !  unmistakably, 
in  clear-cut  letters  on  the  grassy  swards,  and  so  large 
that  they  might  be  read  from  the  far  hills  of  Clare,  that 
to-day  looked  near  and  threatening,  were  c-ut  the 
words  — 

PRAISED   BE  JESUS   CHRIST,    FOREVER  ! 


®' 


V 


CHAPTER   XXXV 

A   LECTURE  ON   BIOLOGY 

It  was  fortunate  for  Luke  Delmege  that  this  momen- 
tary contact  with  the  best  side  of  human  nature  had 
softened  his  feelings  towards  men.  Because  he  was 
just  now  face  to  face  with  that  most  deadly  temptation 
—  to  despise  and  shrink  from  his  kind,  and  to  live  in 
such  solitariness  of  thought  as  would  barelv  allow  a 
margin  of  time  for  the  discharge  of  sacred  duties. 
The  mighty  abstraction,  Humanity,  which  he  had  wor- 
shipped in  the  liigh  atmosphere  of  thought,  had  been 
rudely  dispelled,  and  had  left  only  the  sordid  precipi- 
tate of  a  few  wrecked  fragments  of  bones  and  dust. 
And  in  the  awful  revelations  of  the  grave  he  read  the 
utter  insignificance  of  human  life.  He  began  to  per- 
ceive, too,  in  his  close  observation  of  Nature,  that  the 
same  law  was  everywhere  —  life  springing  from  the 
bosom  of  deatli,  and  then  chased  back  into  death  again 
by  the  operations  of  some  inexorable  law.  It  was  witli 
infinite  pity  he  saw  how,  in  the  s})ringtime  of  the  year, 
the  buds  had  scarcely  unfolded  themselves  in  tender, 
silky  leaves,  when  frost,  or  caidvcr,  or  blight  withered 
and  dried  up  their  infantine  beauty  ;  and,  on  the  other 
liand,  the  leaves  were  hardly  changed  in  colour  umhn- 
October  frosts,  when  tiny  buds  shot  forth  only  to  be 
paralyzed  and  shrunk  under  the  icy  breath  of  winter. 
So,  too,  in  the  fairest  child,  death  and  (htay  made 
tliemselves  manifest.  Scarcely  had  life  begun,  when 
death  stood  by  the  cradle,  liis  tlionsnnd-winged  mes- 
senger of  disease  hovering  around  that  infant  form  to 
arrest  its  growth  and  destroy  it.  The  carious  teeth 
2h  465 


466  LUKE  DELMEGE 

and  the  anseraic  lips  of  young  boys  and  girls  affected 
him  strangely.  A  chemist's  shop,  with  all  its  sights 
and  smells  —  its  iodoform,  and  creosote,  and  carbolic, 
the  ill-smelling  wardens  against  decomposition  and  dis- 
solution —  made  him  sick.  Death  and  decay  haunted 
all  Nature  like  a  hideous  spectre.  So,  too,  in  his  read- 
ing, Luke  gave  up  everything  that  was  merely  ephem- 
eral. History  he  could  not  bear.  What  was  it  but 
the  record  of  human  passion  and  folly  —  the  amateur 
theatricals  of  a  race  that  must  cheat  time  and  ennui 
with  its  battles  and  diplomacy,  and  whose  stage  mim- 
icry would  be  a  tragedy,  if  its  unimportance  did  not 
make  it  ludicrous  ?  No.  There  was  nothing  lasting 
but  the  Idea  and  the  Soul  ;  and  Luke  turned  away 
with  loathing  from  his  race  and  sought  earth's  only 
blessing  of  peace  in  solitude  and  thought.  He  was 
driven  farther  inward  on  himself  by  the  attitude  of  his 
brethren  towards  him.  They  were  kind,  but  critical. 
Their  swift,  impetuous  ways,  always  seeking  action, 
action  —  their  emphatic  principles,  their  intolerance  of 
abstractions,  and  their  insistence  on  facts  ;  and  all  this, 
coupled  with  an  idealism  that  seemed  to  him  utterly 
visionary  and  impractical,  alienated  his  sympathies  from 
them.  He  was  always  unhappy  in  society,  except, 
indeed,  the  society  of  his  beloved  pastor,  whose  suave 
gentleness  subdued  all  riotous  questioning  on  his  part. 
And  he  haunted  the  mountains  and  the  streams  and  the 
pine- woods,  and  came  home  happy  from  his  association 
with  the  peace  of  Nature.  A  day  on  the  lonely  moun- 
tains, sitting  over  the  rough  bridge  which  spanned  the 
yellow  torrent,  with  the  furze  and  the  bracken  waving 
around  him,  and  a  hare  leaping  out  to  wonder  at  him, 
and  the  whir  of  the  partridge  over  his  head,  and  the 
fresh,  clean  air  wrapping  him  around  like  a  cool  gar- 
ment on  a  fever  patient,  and  the  long,  lone  vistas  stretch- 
ing away  to  the  hazy  hills  that  crowned  the  pathway  of 
the  lordly  Shannon,  was  an  unspeakable  pleasure.  But 
it  was  morbid.  Not  in  action  alone,  or  in  thought  alone, 
but  in  the  interplay  of  thought   and  action,  true  life 


A  LECTURE   ON   BIOLOGY  467 

consists.  And  Luke  was  saved  from  this  morbidity 
for  a  time  by  the  opening  up  of  men's  hearts  towards 
him.  And  when  again  he  was  driven  back  upon  him- 
self, this  generous  expansion  of  his  people's  affections 
always  protected  him  from  the  temptation  of  contempt. 

Immediately  after  the  events  narrated  in  the  last 
chapter,  he  made  two  gallant  attempts  to  get  into  touch 
with  the  outer  world.  He  was  stung  into  making  the 
attempts  by  some  unkind  things  he  had  heard.  They 
were  but  two  simple  phrases,  but  they  meant  so  much. 
"  Sub  nube  I  "  lie  only  heard  it  in  a  whisper  ;  but  oh  ! 
how  much  it  signified  !  And  that  cruel  and  unjust  say- 
ing of  Lactantius  :  "Literati  non  habent  fidem  !  "  so 
untrue,  yet  so  easily  applicable  on  the  lijDS  of  the  un- 
charitable, cut  him  to  the  quick,  as  it  magnified  the 
episcopal  warning  into  a  grave  censure,  which  might  be 
removed  by  Mother  Church,  but  never  by  the  world. 
He  determined  to  assert  himself  —  to  come  out  into  the 
arena,  as  he  had  so  often  stepped  into  the  palsestrum  of 
liis  college,  and  show  himself  for  all  he  was  worth. 
Tliere  were  two  ways  open  to  him,  literature  and  the 
pulpit  ;  two  weapons,  the  voice  and  the  pen. 

He  took  down  his  books  —  some,  alas  !  mildewed  and 
damp  from  want  of  use  — and  set  to  work  steadily.  He 
gave  himself  full  time  for  careful  elaboration  ;  and  in 
six  weeks  he  had  a  paper  ready  for  the  press.  They 
were  the  happiest  six  weeks  he  had  spent  since  liis  re- 
turn to  Ireland.  Blessed  is  work  !  Blessed,  the  sen- 
tence :  '-In  the  sweat  of  thy  brow  shalt  thou  lal)our  all 
the  days  of  thy  life  !  "  He  got  his  essay  carefully  type- 
written, though  typing  was  a  costly  novelty  at  the  time, 
and  sent  it  on  to  the  Editor  of  a  great  Quarterly  that  was 
just  then  setting  out  boldly  on  its  career  as  the  organ 
of  Science,  Literature,  Polemics,  and  Art,  for  all  that 
was  cultured  in  the  country.  In  a  few  weeks,  alas  I  the 
little  roll  was  returned,  with  this  letter  :  — 

"Office  of.  The  Indicator,  April  6,  188-. 
"^1y  peak  Ltke  :  —  In  conqiliance  with  your  modest  reijuest, 
and  the  dictates  of  the  editorial  conscience,  1  read  your  paper  from 


468  LUKE  DELMEGE 


i 


I 


Alpha  to  Omega.  Like  the  famous  critic,  who  opened  '  The  Ring 
and  the  Book  '  for  the  first  time,  the  dreadful  suspicion  crossed  my 
mind  :  Have  I  become  suddenly  demented  ?  On  the  suggestion  of 
my  sub.  we  read  the  paper  backwards ;  and  then  a  great  light 
dawned.  Xothing  could  give  me  greater  pleasure  than  to  oblige 
an  old  schoolmate  ;  but  if  I  published  your  paper,  there  would  be 
an  immediate  demand  for  auxiliary  asylums  all  over  the  country; 
and  the  doctors  would  at  last  have  a  tangible  cause  for  the  increase 
in  insanity,  instead  of  tracing  it  to  that  liarmless  drug,  called  Tea. 
Accepting  your  theory,  however,  about  the  Identity  of  Contradic- 
tories, I  accept  your  paper ;  and,  in  the  same  sense,  you  will  hereby  H 
find  enclosed  a  check  for  £20. 

"  I  am,  dear  Luke,  Yours  etc.,  The  Editor. 

"P.S.  —  You  will  pardon  an  editorial  joke,  for  auld  lang  syne's 
sake.  But,  my  dear  Luke,  you  are  a  hundred  years  behind  or  a 
hundred  years  in  advance  of  your  age.  Don't  you  know  we  are 
just  now  passing  through  the  'bread-and-butter'  cycle?  that  we 
have  hung  up  Erin-go-Bragh  ;  and  are  taking  Sidney  Smith  's  ad- 
vice about  Erin-go-bread-and-butter  —  Erin-go-boots-without-holes- 
in-them,  etc.,  etc.  ?  Wi'ite  me  something  practical,  thou  agricultural 
curate  —  the  quantity  of  nitrogen  in  a  cubic  foot  of  solid  guano,  how 
to  get  sulphur  out  of  turnips,  and  sugar  of  phosphorus  out  of  apples, 
or  anything  that  will  help  on  the  material  prosperity  of  the  coun- 
try; but  abandon  your  idealism,  and  not  only  for  a  time,  but  for- 
ever.    How  I  envy  you  ! 

O,  fortunatos  nimium,  sua  si  bona  norint ! 

My  only  chance  of  exercise  is  on  a  piano-stool,  which  is  my  tripod; 
and  on  which  I  make  conscientiously  three  thousand  gyrations  every 
day.  And  you,  on  your  gallant  steed,  spurning  the  earth,  and  climb- 
ing the  Heavens !     Ah  me ! ! ! " 

Luke  read  the  letter  three  or  four  times.  He  was 
disappointed  ;  but  he  could  not  be  angry.  The  good- 
humour  of  his  old  classmate  disarmed  him.  And  cer- 
tainly it  was  a  good  joke,  that  Luke  Delmege,  the 
methodical,  the  practical,  the  realist,  should  be  warned 
off  from  the  dangers  of  a  too  exuberant  imagination. 

"There  is  no  end  to  the  human  enigma,"  he  said,  as  he 
tied  the  roll  and  flung  it  into  the  recesses  of  his  bookcase. 

Some  months  after,  he  was  invited  to  lecture  at  a  great 
literary  club  in  the  city.  The  letter  of  invitation  im- 
plied that  Luke's  estrangement  from  the  active  life  of 
the  Church  around  him  was  extremely  unlike  all  that 
they  had  read  about  his  career  in  England,  and  gently 


A   LECTURE   ON    BIOLOGY  469 

hinted  that  a  persistence  in  these  solitary  habits  would 
infallibly  lead  to  his  being  considered  peculiar  and 
strange.  The  subject  of  the  lecture  was  left  to  his  own 
selection,  with  one  proviso  —  it  should  be  up-to-date. 

With  all  his  morbid  shrinking  from  publicity,  partly 
the  result  of  the  secret  contempt  of  men  of  which  we 
have  spoken,  and  partly  arising  from  a  dread  of  being 
misunderstood,  Luke  would  have  declined  the  invita- 
tion ;  but  that  word  "  peculiar "  stung  him  ;  and  lie 
determined  to  go,  and  show  the  world  what  he  was,  and 
what  he  miglit  have  been.  He  ransacked  his  brains  and 
his  library  for  an  up-to-date  subject  ;  and,  at  last,  de- 
cided that  biology  —  the  latest  of  the  sciences  —  was 
exactly  suitable  to  his  own  tastes  and  the  capacities  of 
his  audience.  He  wrought  laboriously  at  his  lecture, 
determined  it  sliould  l^e  his  last  cast  of  the  dice. 

There  was  a  full  house  ;  and  a  brilliant  gathering  of 
priests  and  laymen  on  the  platform.  The  president 
happily  and  generously  spoke  of  Luke's  splendid  career 
in  college,  and  liis  after-successes  on  the  mission  ;  and 
he  spoke  so  warmly  and  so  sympathetically,  that  J^uke 
felt  all  his  anger  against  mankind  oozing  away  ;  and  all 
the  bitter  tilings  that  had  come  back  to  his  ears,  all  the 
more  bitter  for  the  translation,  began  to  fade  away  in 
happy  feelings  of  trust  and  love  and  gratitude.  When 
will  the  world  understand  the  micrhtv  magic  of  kind 
words?  Luke  rebuked  liimself.  "It  is  self-know- 
ledge," he  said,  "that  has  made  me  uncharitable." 
Surely  the  heart  enshrines  mysteries  and  secrets  beyond 
the  power  of  its  own  divination  ! 

His  young  spirits  bounded  back  at  this  generous  in- 
troduction ;  and  he  spoke  under  the  intoxication  of 
stimulated  genius.  His  reception  l)y  tlie  audience,  too, 
was  cordial,  almost  enthusiastic.  His  line  ligure,  a  face 
animated  with  the  glow  of  talent  and  the  excitement  of 
a  novel  experiment,  his  clear,  well-niodulaifd,  ringing 
voice,  that  stmnded  quite  musical  even  after  the  splen- 
did chorus  of  the  Orchestral  I'nion  of  the  society, 
seemed  to  awaken  all  present  to  the  fact  that  tliis  lee- 


470  LUKE  DELMEGE 

ture  was  to  be  something  quite  unique  in  their  experi- 
ences. Nor  were  they  disappointed.  It  was  a  clear, 
well-knit  lecture,  full  of  facts,  as  well  as  arguments  ; 
and  when  Luke  completed  a  peroration  in  which  he 
welcomed  every  fact,  and  scorned  every  conclusion  of 
modern  science,  and  declared  that  the  cry  of  the  Church 
in  every  age,  most  of  all  in  our  own,  is  for  "  Light ! 
more  light !  that  all  knowledge  may  finally  expand  and 
be  lost  in  the  Light  Supernal,"  —  the  audience,  mostly 
young  men,  arose,  and  gave  him  an  ovation  that  seemed 
to  console  him  for  all  his  years  of  enforced  seclusion. 
One  member  after  another  stood  up  to  express  his  grati- 
fication ;  and  then  —  well,  then  —  there  was  the  "little 
rift  within  the  lute,"  that  was  tingling  so  musically 
in  his  ears.  For  one  member  made  a  comic  speech  about 
the  "blastoderms"  and  "gemmules"  and  "amoeba" 
which  Luke  had  introduced  into  his  lecture ;  and  an- 
other hinted  the  suspicion  that  it  was  fine,  but  was  it 
sound?  It  was  eloquent ;  but  was  it  orthodox?  Luke 
flushed  angrily.  The  president  intervened.  He  took 
Luke's  part  nobly ;  and,  being  a  man  of  vast  erudition 
and  unimpeachable  honour,  his  words  were  regarded  as 
final.  But  the  sting  remained.  And  for  many  months 
did  Luke  puzzle  himself  with  the  enigma  that  the  more 
closely  he  studied,  and  the  more  accurately  he  expressed 
himself,  the  more  was  he  misunderstood.  He  spoke 
angrily  on  the  subject  once  to  a  lively  confrere. 

"I'd  advise  you,  Luke,"  said  the  latter,  "to  keep  to 
Grattan  and  6'Connell,  or  that  venerable  subject  — 
The  relative  merits  of  a  monarchy  and  a  republic,  or  — 
Was  Napoleon  a  greater  warrior  than  Wellington?  You 
can't  trip  there." 

"  But  I  didn't  trip,"  protested  poor  Luke. 

"  Of  course  not !  of  course  not !  "  said  the  confrere. 

But  there  was  one  member  of  the  audience  that  famous 
evening  who  was  utterly  disgusted  and  disedified.  Mat- 
thew O'Shaughnessy  was  a  retired  merchant,  who  had 
accumulated  a  pretty  fortune  in  the  bacon  and  butter 
line  ;  and,  having  provided  well  for  his  family,  he  wisely 


A  LECTURE   ON   BIOLOGY  471 

determined  to  retire  from  business,  and,  with  his  excel- 
lent wife,  to  spend  the  twilight  of  their  lives  in  peace. 
He  was  a  very  pious  man ;  kind,  and  good,  and  chari- 
table, almost  to  a  fault.  But  he  had  one  imperfection 
—  only  one  ;  and  that,  very  venial.  He  was  critical, 
especially  about  matters  affecting  religion  or  the  Church. 
He  always  raised  his  silk  hat  —  for  he  was  a  dreadful 
formalist  and  belonged  to  the  old  school  —  when  pass- 
ing a  priest  in  the  street :  kindly,  if  he  met  an  acquaint- 
ance ;  ostentatiously,  if  he  met  a  stranger.  But  he 
would  not  salute  a  priest  who  was  cycling.  He  thought 
it  undignified  and  unbecoming. 

He  sat,  on  Sundays,  a  little  distance  from  the  pulpit ; 
so  near,  that,  being  somewhat  deaf,  especially  in  the 
left  ear,  he  might  hear  the  preacher;  so  far,  that  he 
might  see  him,  and  watch  his  expression  and  gestures. 
When  the  Gospel  of  the  day  had  been  read,  wliich 
Matthew  followed  word  by  word  from  his  prayer-book 
to  see  was  it  correctly  rendered,  he  sat  with  the  audi- 
ence, but  slightly  turned  towards  the  wall,  and  with  his 
right  hand  folded  over  and  pressing  down  his  ear.  If 
the  remarks  of  the  preacher  pleased  him,  he  punctuated 
them  with  several  nods  of  the  head  and  half-audible 
remarks  :  "  That's  good  !  "  "  Bravo  !  "  "I  wouldn't 
doubt  you  !  "  H  the  preacher  was  weak  or  irrelevant, 
Matthew  turned  around,  wiped  his  spectacles,  and  read 
his  prayer-book.  He  objected  strenuously  to  "  priests 
in  politics  "  ;  and  often  asked  :  "  What  in  the  world  are 
the  bishops  doing  ?  " 

On  the  evening  of  Luke's  lecture,  Matthew,  as  an  hon- 
orary member  of  the  committee,  should  have  been  on 
the  platform  with  the  priests  and  distinguished  laymen, 
and  grievous  was  the  disappointment  of  many  who  had 
been  anticipating  a  great  treat  from  Matthew's  remarks 
on  biology.  But  he  came  in  late  —  tlie}^  said,  purposely 
so  —  and  was  accommodated  with  a  seat  at  the  furthest 
end  of  the  hall.  He  took  it  graciously,  bowed  all  around 
to  the  young  men,  took  out  his  red  silk  handkerchief 
and  folded  it  on  his  knee,  leaned  slightly  forward,  fold- 


472  LUKE  DELMEGE 

ing  his  right  hand  over  his  ear,  and  listened.  Luke 
was  just  saying  that  scientists  had  not  yet  fully  deter- 
mined whether  man  was  a  regenerate  and  fully-evolved 
anthropoid  ape,  or  whether  the  anthropoid  ape  was  a 
degenerate  man ;  and  he  instanced  experiments  that 
had  lately  been  made  in  London  on  a  certain  simian, 
called  Sally,  who  was  made  to  count  numerals  up  to 
ten  by  placing  straws  in  her  mouth.  Matthew's  face 
lengthened,  as  he  listened  with  open  mouth.  He 
couldn't  believe  his  ears.  He  looked  around  cautiously 
to  see  what  effect  these  extraordinary  statements  were 
producing  on  the  faces  of  the  young  men  around  him. 
They  were  preternaturally  solemn.  He  listened  again. 
This  time  Luke  was  using  manifestly  profane  language. 
Matthew  looked  around.  The  boys  shook  their  heads 
mournfully  and  nudged  each  other.  They  then  looked 
to  Matthew  for  a  clew.  "  I  thought  so,"  he  said,  draw- 
ing in  his  breath  sharply.  "  I  knew  my  sinses  didn't 
deceive  me.  Did  any  mortial  man  ever  hear  the  like 
from  a  priest  before  ?  "  But,  then,  here  was  a  chorus 
of  congratulation  from  president,  vice-president,  and 
committee. 

''  I  vvouldn't  stand  it,  if  I  was  you,"  whispered  a 
young  man,  who  read  Matthew's  mind  as  it  were  a 
book.  "  'Tis  a  burning  shame,  and  you're  one  of  the 
committee." 

But  just  then  the  one  critic  was  opening  his  batteries 
on  the  lecture  and  expressing  grave  doubts  about  the 
lecturer's  orthodoxy.     Matthew  was  delighted. 

''  Good  man  !  "  he  whispered.  "  Go  on  !  Pitch  into 
him  !     Right  you  are  !     Send  it  home  !  " 

He  then  folded  his  silk  handkerchief  with  a  sigh, 
took  up  his  silk  hat,  and  turned  round.  He  saw  the 
expectant  faces. 

"  Well,"  said   he,   "  if  that  doesn't  bang    Banagher, 

I'm  —  a  —  I'm  —  a  —  street-preacher.     What  the is 

comin'  over  the  counthry  at  all,  at  all  ?  " 

He  went  out  into  the  night.  It  was  a  moonlit  night, 
very  bright,  and  soft  and   balmy.     The   streets  were 


;i 


A   LECTURE   ON    BIOLOGY  473 

deserted.  The  audience  had  remained  for  the  final 
chorus.  Matthew  was  jiuzzled,  angry,  shocked.  He 
had  to  relieve  his  feelings.  He  addressed  Diana,  as 
there  was  no  one  else  around. 

"  Egor  !  'tis  a  quare  business  altogether  !  We  don't 
know  whether  'tis  on  our  heads  or  heels  we're  standin' 
with  these  young  men  !  Did  anny  wan  ever  hear  the 
like  before  from  the  lips  of  a  Roman  Catholic  clergy- 
man ?  Egor  !  Jim  the  mule,  and  Mike  the  rogue,  an' 
Sally  the  ape  !  Wasn't  the  poor  'uman  as  good  as  God 
made  her?  An'  if  He  didn't  make  her  as  handsome  as 
me  young  bucko,  wasn't  that  His  business  ?  An'  why 
should  any  poor  'uman  be  called  an  ape  ?  " 

Diana  looked  solemnly  down,  conscious  of  her  own 
beauty,  on  these  microbes  of  earth,  but  did  not  rejjly. 
Matthew  went  further  towards  home.  Then  his  feel- 
ings overpowered  him  again,  and  striking  the  rever- 
berating flags  with  his  heavy  stick,  he  again  addressed 
Diana. 

"  That  was  bad  enough  ;  but  whin  he  comminced 
cursin'  and  blasphemin',  I  thought  he'd  rise  the  roof 
aff.  '  Blast  ho  !  Jane  Ettick,'  he  says  ;  '  blast  ho  !  Jer 
]Minahal  !  '  Egor  !  the  ind  of  the  world  is  comin'  ! 
What  will  ]\Iary  say,  I  wondher  !  " 

jNlary  had  been  taking  a  gentle  snooze  over  the  par- 
lour fire,  while  the  cat  slept  at  her  feet  and  the  kettle 
sang  on  the  hob.  She  woke  up  on  Matthew's  entrance, 
rubbed  her  eyes,  and  said  dreamily  :  — 

"Ton  my  word,  Matcha,  I  believe  I  was  akchally 
asleep.      How  did  ye  like  the  lecksliure?" 

Mary  looked  well  in  her  black  silk  dress,  and  the 
thin  gold  cliain  around  her  neck  ;  but  Mattliew  was 
too  indignant  to  heed  sucli  things  just  then. 

"  Lave  me  alone,  'uman,"  he  said.  "  Where  are  the 
matayriels  ?  " 

Mary  said  nothing,  but  touclied  the  bell.  Slie  was 
accustomed  to  these  moods.  The  '"•  matayriels  "  were 
brought  in,  and  Mattliew.  with  sundry  grunting  solilo- 
quies, brewed  his  tumbler.      He  then  bent  forward,  and 


474  LUKE  DELMEGE 

placing  the  tips  of  his  fingers  together  between  his 
knees,  he  said  :  — 

"Mary  O'Shaughnessy,  you  and  me  are  a  long  time 
in  this  wurruld,  and  maybe  we'll  be  longer,  plase  God  ; 
but  of  all  the  demonsth rations  and  exhibitions  you  ever 
hard  of,  to-night  bate  thim  all." 

He  moistened  his  lips.     Mary  woke  up. 

"  If  it  was  a  Methody,  or  a  Prosbyterian,  or  wan  of 
these  new  acrostics,  that  I  hear  'em  talk  of  sometimes 
below  there,  I  wouldn't  be  surprised.  But  a  Roman 
Catholic  clergyman,  an  ordained  minister  of  God,  who'll 
be  standing  at  the  althar  to-morrow  mornin'  —  " 

Here  Matthew's  feelings  overpowered  him.  He 
threw  out  his  hands  in  an  attitude  of  horror  and  un- 
speakable disgust,  and  then  moistened  his  lips. 

"  What  was  it  about,  at  all  ?  "  said  Mary,  to  help  out 
her  husband's  inability  to  explain. 

"  About  ?  ril  tell  you,  thin.  It  appears  that  this 
young  gintleman  was  in  England ;  and  there,  like  here, 
the  blagards  will  call  names.  But  what  was  the  manin' 
of  telling  a  respectable  congregation  about  Jim  the  mule, 
and  Mike  the  rogue  ?  But  that  wasn't  all.  There  was 
a  poor  half-deminted  crachure  over  there,  called  Sally, 
and  what  did  they  do  wid  her,  d'ye  think  ?  Brought 
the  poor  'uraan  up  upon  a  stage,  and  asked  her  to  count 
tin.  And  whin  she  couldn't,  they  put  sthraws  in  her 
mout',  and  made  her  take  'em  out,  wan  by  wan,  to  count 
'em.  But,"  continued  Matthew,  as  he  laid  down  his 
wine  glass,  "•  that  wasn't  the  worst  of  the  business. 
Mary  O'Shaughnessy,  did  you  ever  hear  a  priest  curse  ?" 

"  Yerra,  what's  comin'  over  you,  Matcha  ? "  said 
Mary,  peering  at  her  husband  intently.  "  Curse  ?  a 
priest  curse  ?     Niver,  nor  you  ayther  !  " 

"  Didn't  I  ?  "  said  Matthew.  "  Faix,  an'  I  did.  Not 
wance  or  twice  nayther  ;  but  every  second  word  from 
his  mout'." 

"If  I  didn't  know  you,  Matcha  O'Shaughnessy," 
said  Mary,  with  some  anger,  "  I'd  say  you  wor  dhramin'." 

"  Faix,  I  wasn't,  nor  more  nor  you  this  minit,"  said 


f 


i 


A  LECTUKE   ON   BIOLOGY  475 

Matthew.  "  Egor,  I  thought  he'd  rise  the  roof  av  me 
head.  '  Blast  yah,  Jane  Ettick,'  he  says  ;  not  '  you,'  at 
all,  but '  yah,'  wid  his  grand  English  accent :  '  Blast  yah, 
Jer  Minahal  !     Blast  yah,  Dermody  '  —  " 

Mrs.  O'Shaughnessy  was  tap^jing  the  brass  fender 
with  her  slipper  in  an  ominous  manner  ;  and  her  eyes 
were  glinting,  like  the  sparks  in  the  grate  ;  but  Mat- 
thew, with  all  the  unconsciousness  of  a  fated  mortal, 
went  on,  twisting  poor  Luke's  scientific  terminology 
into  horrible  profanity.  Then  the  storm  broke  sud- 
denly. 

"  D'ye  know  wliat  I'm  after  thinkin',  Mr.  O'Shaugh- 
nessy  ?  "  she  said,  in  an  accent  of  forced  calmness. 

"Somethin'  good,  Mary,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mattliew,  a 
little  frightened  and  surprised. 

"I'm  thinkin",  Matcha  O'Sliaughnessy,"  said  Mary, 
beating  time  with  her  slipper,  "  that  you  lifted  yer  little 
finger  wance  too  often  since  yer  dinner." 

"If  you  mane,  Mary,"  said  Matthew,  apologetically, 
yet  sure  of  his  defence,  "that  I  took  dhrink,  ye  were 
never  more  mistaken  in  yer  life.  Since  the  day  I  took 
the  teetotal  pledge  for  life  from  Father  Matcha,  me 
friend,  down  there  in  the  bowlin'  green,  exactly  forty- 
five  years  ago  come  this  Christmas,  on  two  dhrinks  a 
day,  and  whatever  the  Doctor  would  ordher  as  medicine, 
I  never  tasted  a  dhrop  since." 

"  Thin  can't  you  let  yer  priests  alone  ?  "  cried  Mary, 
angrily  turning  around. 

"  Yerra,  is  't  me,  'lunan  ?  "  cried  Matthew.  "  Yerra, 
rd  die  for  me  priests  1  " 

"  Thin  why  are  you  alwa3'S  nagging  at  'em,  an'  placin' 
'era  and  faultfindin"  with  'em  ?  Begor,  the  poor  gintle- 
min  can't  please  ye,  at  all,  at  all.  If  they  wear  a  liigli 
bayver,  they're  too  grand  ;  an'  if  they  wear  a  Jurry-luit, 
they're  demanin'  tliimselves.  If  they're  goin'  about  their 
juty  in  the  sthreets,  they  ought  to  be  at  home  ;  and  if 
they  stay  at  home,  wh}-  aren't  they  walking  the  sthreets? 
If  they  go  to  Kilkee  or  Lisdoonvarna  for  a  bret'  of  fiesh 
a-ir,  they're  spindin'  the  money  of  the  poor  ;  an'  if  they 


476  LUKE  DELMEGE 

stop  at  home,  they're  savin'  and  miserly.  If  they  take 
their  masheens  an'  go  out  for  a  whiff  of  fresh  air,  afther 
bein'  cooped  up  all  day  in  their  boxes,  pious  craw-thump- 
ers an'  althar-scrapers  won't  take  aff  their  hat  to  God's 
ministers  —  " 

"  Yerra,  'uman,  take  yer  tongue  aff  me,"  cried  Mat- 
thew, in  agony.  "  Sure,  I'd  lie  down  in  the  mud  of  the 
sthreets,  and  lave  me  priests  walk  over  me  body  —  " 

"  Begor,"  continued  Mary,  now  thoroughly  roused, 
"wid  yere  Parnellites,  an'  yere  Indepindints,  an'  yere 
Faynians,  there's  no  respect  for  God  nor  man.  Ye'U 
be  soon  tellin'  the  Pope  of  Rome  what  he  ought  to  do. 
But  'tis  only  sarvin'  'em  right.  Manny  and  manny's 
the  time  I  tould  'em  :  '  Do  as  the  ould  priests  did  — 
give  'em  the  stick  acrass  the  small  of  their  back,  an' 
they'll  respect  ye.'  But,  begor  now,  the  priests  of  the 
Church  must  take  aff  their  Caroline  hats  to  ivery  little 
whipster  of  a  girl  that  comes  home  from  her  convent 
school  wid  her  rowl  of  music  under  her  arrum  —  " 

"  Go  on  !  "  said  Matthew,  resignedly,  turning  round 
to  his  only  consolation.  "  What  the  Scripture  says  is 
true  :  There's  no  stoppin'  a  burnin'  house,  nor  a 
scouldin'  'uman." 

"■  An'  what'd  ye  be,  widout  yere  priests  ?  "  continued 
Mary,  unheeding.  "  Who  looks  after  the  poor  and  the 
sick  ?  Who  goes  out  into  the  house  where  there's 
sickness  and  faver,  and  browncheeties,  and  mazles  ? 
Who  gets  up  yere  Young  Min's  Societies  for  ye  ?  An' 
yere  concerts  ?  Who's  at  the  top,  bottom,  and  middle 
of  iverything  that's  good  or  gracious  —  in  the 
counthrv  —  " 

"  Yerra,  'uman,  shure  I'm  not  denying  that  our  priests 
are  good  !  "  pleaded  Matthew,  in  despair. 

"  An'  there  ye  are,  like  a  parcel  of  unwaned  childre 
wid  yere  mouths  open  to  be  fed.  'Tis  the  priest  here  ; 
an'  the  priest  there  !  An'  very  little  thanks  they  get  for 
their  throuble  afther  all.  But,  believe  you  me,  Matcha 
O'Shaughnessy,"  continued  Mary,  in  a  tone  of  great 
solemnity,  "  an'  believe  you  me  agin,  there's  a  day  of 


A   LECTURE   ON   BIOLOGY  477 

reck'nin'  corain'  ;  and  manny  a  poor  cracluire,  who 
hasn't  as  long  a  bade  as  you  or  your  aiquals,  may  inter 
the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  afore  ye.  But  take  me  advice 
—  let  the  priests  alone  !  They  belong  to  God  ;  an'  if 
they  go  astray  let  Him  dale  wid  them  !  " 

There  was  a  deep,  solemn  hush  of  ten  minutes'  dura- 
tion after  this  tornado.  Matthew  was  struck  dumb. 
What  can  a  poor  fellow  do  but  bite  the  dust  after  a 
cyclone  ?  "  Tic-tac,"  solemnly  went  the  clock  on  the 
mantelpiece.  "  Tick,  tick,  tick,  tick,  tick,  tick,"  went 
Mary's  gold  watch  in  her  belt.  At  last  Matthew  raised 
himself  with  a  deep  sigh  ;  and  commenced  to  compose 
an  Eirenicon.  When  this  was  ready,  he  said,  in  a  gentle 
and  deferential  whisper  :  — 

"  Mary  !  " 

There  was  no  reply. 

"  Mary  !  "  he  said,  more  loudly. 

"Well  ?"  said  Mary,  without  looking  round. 

"Mary,  I'm  makin'  a  little  sup  for  you." 

"  You  won't,"  said  Mary,  crossly. 

"  But  I  say  I  will,"  said  Matthew.  "  Mary,  I've  been 
noticin'  for  a  long  time  that  you're  not  look  in'  quite 
yerself.  You're  only  pickin'  and  pickin'  at  your  males 
like  a  young  chicken.  Why,  you  ate  no  more  for  your 
brekfus  thin  a  child  of  four.  You  must  see  thedoctlior, 
and  take  somcthin'  every  day  for  nourishment.  Here, 
take  this  ! " 

"  'Tis  too  sthrong,"  said  Mary,  making  a  grimace 
over  the  steaming  wine-glass. 

"'Tis  not  too  stlirong,"  said  ^Matthew,  in  a  tone  of 
righteous  indignation.      "'Twill  rouse  you  up." 

"  Put  a  little  hot  wather  in  it,"  said  Mary,  pleadingly. 

"I  will  not  put  hot  wather  in  it,"  said  Matthew. 
"  Is  it  to  make  you  sick,  I'd  be  ?  " 

"Well,  I'll  lave  it  up  there  to  cool,"  said  Mary,  plac- 
ing the  wine-glass  on  the  mantelpiece. 

After  a  long  pause,  during  which  the  temperature 
settled  down  to  normal,  Mary  said  :  — 

"  That  young  priest  is  a  cousin  of  mine  !  " 


478  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"What  young  priest  ?"  said  Matthew,  with  affected 
indignation. 

"  The  young  pracher,"  said  Mary. 

"  Is't  Father  Delmege  you  mane  ?  "  said  Matthew. 

*'  Yis,"  answered  Mary.  "  He's  me  second  and  third 
cousin  be  me  mother's  side." 

"  An'  why  didn't  ye  tell  me  that  before  ? "  said 
Matthew.  "  Did  I  iver  see  such  people  as  women  are  ? 
They  draw  you  out,  an'  out,  an'  out,  like  a  talliscope, 
until  you  make  a  fool  of  yerself,  and  thin  they  shut  you 
up  with  a  snap.  But,  faix,  an'  'tisn't  because  I'm  say- 
in'  it  to  yer  face,  ye  have  raison  to  be  proud  of  him." 

"I'm  toulcl  he's  a  fine-lookin'  man,"  said  Mary. 

"  Fine  ?  Fine  is  no  name  for  him.  He's  wan  of  the 
grandest  min  ye  ever  saw  in  a  day's  walk." 

"  I  suppose  he'll  be  coming  to  see  me,"  said  Mary, 
*'if  only  on  account  of  his  poor  mother." 

"  D'ye  think  will  he  come  to-night  ?  "  said  Matthew, 
in  alarm. 

"  Faix,  he  might.  He  might  dhrop  over  afther  his 
supper." 

"  I'm  better  be  puttin'  these  things  out  of  the  way," 
said  Matthew,  hastily  removing  the  glasses.  "  I'm  tould 
he  hates  this,  as  the  divil  hates  holy  wather." 

Just  then,  a  tremendous  knock  was  heard  at  the 
Uall-door. 

"  Here  he  is! "  said  Mary,  straightening  herself  up,  and 
arranging  her  toilette.     "  Do  I  look  all  right,  Matcha  ?  " 

"  Never  better  in  yer  life,"  said  Matthew.  "  He'll 
be  the  proud  man  whin  he  sees  you." 

There  was  a  coUoqu}-  in  the  hall  ;  then  a  heavy  foot 
on  the  stairs.  In  answer  to  a  rather  timid  knock, 
Matthew  shouted  "  Come  in  !  "  The  door  opened  just 
a  little,  the  servant-maid  put  in  her  tousled  head,  and 
said  :  — 

"  The  milkman,  ma'am,  sez  he  wants  that  tuppence 
for  the  mornin's  milk  !  " 

"  Bad  luck  to  you  and  the  milkman  together,"  said 
Mary,  fumbling  in  her  pockets.     "  Here  !  " 


I 


A  LECTURE   ON   BIOLOGY  479 

But  Luke  did  call  the  following  day  ;  and  he  was 
veiy  grand,  but  gracious,  and  even  affectionate.  He 
had  been  learning  that  in  this  old  land,  and  amongst 
its  simple,  faitliful  people,  there  were  mighty  treasures 
of  warmth  and  love,  for  which  the  cold,  steely  polish  of 
other  lands  was  but  a  poor  exchange.  And  Matthew 
and  Mary  lived  on  the  honour  for  days  afterwards,  and 
cut  out  the  paragrapli  in  the  paper  about  "•  The  Lecture 
on  Biology,"  and  Matthew  went  around,  and  asked  every 
one,  ''  Did  tliey  ever  hear  the  like  before  ?  "  and  "  Why 
the  mischief  doesn't  the  Bishop  bring  that  grand  young 
man  into  the  city  ?  "  And  ]\Liry  placed  on  her  mantel- 
piece, side  by  side  with  the  portrait  of  tlie  Bishop  him- 
self, I^ike's  i)hotograph,  gorgeously  framed ;  and  in 
answer  to  all  inquiries,  she  said  modestly  :  — 

"  Me  cousin,  Father  Luke  I  " 


i 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 
A  BOAST  AND  ITS  CONSEQUENCES 

In  the  cool,  gray  dusk  of  his  little  parlour  Luke  saw 
things  in  a  light  somewhat  different  from  their  gaudy- 
colouring  under  the  gas-jets.  The  clapping  of  hands, 
and  the  eager  faces,  and  the  flattery  had  passed  away  ; 
and  there  remained  but  the  stinging  remembrance  that 
for  the  third  or  fourth  time  in  his  life  he  had  been 
accused  of  coquetting  with  heresy.  With  his  clear-cut 
ideas  on  theological  matters,  he  knew  right  well  that 
this  suspicion  could  not  be  sustained  for  a  moment ; 
and  he  was  so  conscious  of  his  own  deep  attachment  to 
every  jot  and  tittle  of  the  Church's  teachings  that  he 
grew  by  degrees  very  indignant  at  the  shameful  assump- 
tion. All  the  applause  and  enthusiasm  were  forgotten. 
Of  the  handsome  bouquet  of  praise  and  adulation  offered 
him  a  few  nights  before,  alas  !  there  only  remained  a 
few  withered  leaves  and  the  wires  that  cut  his  fingers. 

"  I  don't  think  the  game  is  worth  the  candle,"  said 
Luke  to  himself.     "  Let  me  calculate  the  matter  nicely." 

And  he  wrote  down  this  calculation  neatly  and  in 
the  most  approved  form  of  book-keeping,  thus  :  — 


Dr. 

A  good  deal  of  anxiety  and 
deliberation  about  lecture, 
subject,  etc. 

Six  weeks'  hard  work  on  en- 
cyclopaedias, books,  maga- 
zines, etc. 

Three  weeks'  hard  work  at 
writing,  correcting,  revis- 
ing thirty  pages  of  manu- 
script. 


Or. 

1.  A  little  flattery. 

2.  A  little  applause. 


3.  A  good  deal  of  criticism, 
mostly  unjust  and  unin- 
telligent. 


480 


A  BOAST  AND   ITS   CONSEQUENCES 


481 


Dr. 

4.  Expense  of  typing  same. 

5.  Expense  and   inconvenience 

of  journey,  hotels,  bills,  etc. 

6.  The  nervous  fever  of  lectur- 


Cr. 

4.  Accusation  of  heresy. 

5.  One    tiny    paragraph    in    a 

local  newspaper. 

6.  Oblivion. 


Luke  totted  up,  and  then  proposed,  seconded,  and 
passed  unanimously  the  resolution  :  "  The  game  is  not 
worth  the  candle." 

And  Luke  said  to  his  soul,  "  Sleep  now,  and  take  thy 
rest  !  " 

Beaten  back,  then,  and  baffled  once  more,  it  was  a 
happy  thing  for  him  that  just  now  all  the  flowers  of 
human  respect  and  affection  were  opening  up  their 
beautiful  chalices  in  the  warmth  and  sunshine  of  liis 
own  smile.  And  the  next  few  years,  —  the  years  of 
perfect  manhood  and  strength,  and  alas  !  also  of  decay, 
for  now  his  hair  began  to  be  streaked  with  silver  and 
the  lines  deepened  about  his  mouth,  —  were  very  hap})y, 
and  the  mighty  enigmas  of  life  became  no  longer  too 
personal,  but  only  the  puzzles  of  the  acadeni}-  and  the 
porch.  His  illumination  was  not  perfect,  and  once 
again  his  mighty  Master  woke  him  up  with  the  sharp 
edge  of  the  sword  of  trial.  But  these  years  of  middle 
life  were  very  smooth  and  peaceful,  and  the  prophecy 
of  Father  Martin  was  well  fuliilled.  I^uke  had  found 
his  America  in  Kossmore. 

He  was  helped  on  in  great  measure  by  a  new  experi- 
ence. He  had  noticed,  with  mixed  feelings  of  ])leasure 
and  surprise,  that  the  village  chihiren  were  totally 
unlike  in  demeanour  and  conduct  and  methods  of  ex- 
pression to  any  cliildren  of  whom  he  had  hitherto  had 
experience.  And  it  shows  how  abstracted  and  wrapped 
up  in  liis  own  thonghts  he  must  have  been  Avlien  it  A\as 
some  months  before  he  was  aware  of  the  C(nitrast  and 
the  originating  cause.  Tlien  it  was  suddenly  revealed 
to  him  that  the  respectful,  subdued  attitude  of  the  chil- 
dren, their  reverence  in  cluirch,  their  lu-isk  politeness 
and  attention  to  the  aged  and  inlirm,  were  very  unlike 
2i 


482  LUKE  DELMEGE 

the  rampant  and  reckless  boisterousness  of  youth.  For 
some  time  further  Luke  was  either  indifferent  to,  or 
unconscious  of,  the  cause.  Then,  one  day  he  came  into 
school  at  an  unexpected  time  and  was  surprised  to  see 
the  children  ranged  around  the  wall  and  holding  their 
arms  and  heads  in  different  degrees  of  attention  and 
reverence.  The  silence  was  so  deep  and  the  absorption 
of  the  children  so  great  that  Luke's  entrance  was  not 
noticed,  and  he  heard  the  master,  a  grave  man  of  middle 
years,  saying  :  — 

"  Reverence  is  the  secret  of  all  religion  and  happi- 
ness. Without  reverence,  there  is  no  faith,  nor  hope, 
nor  love.  Reverence  is  the  motive  of  each  of  the  Com- 
mandments of  Sinai — reverence  of  God,  reverence  of 
our  neighbour,  reverence  of  ourselves.  Humility  is 
founded  on  it  ;  piety  is  conserved  by  it  ;  purity  finds 
in  it  its  shield  and  buckler.  Reverence  for  God,  and 
all  that  is  associated  with  Him,  His  ministers.  His 
temple.  His  services  —  that  is  religion.  Reverence  for 
our  neighbour,  his  goods,  his  person,  his  chattels  —  that 
is  honesty.  Reverence  for  ourselves  —  clean  bodies  and 
pure  souls  —  that  is  chastity.  Satan  is  Satan  because 
he  is  irreverent.  There  never  yet  was  an  infidel  but 
he  was  irreverent  and  a  mocker.  The  jester,  and  the 
mime,  the  loud  laugher  and  the  scorner,  have  no  part 
in  the  Kingdom.  These  very  attitudes  you  now  assume 
betoken  reverence.  They  are  the  symbols  of  something 
deeper  and  higher  —  " 

Here  he  saw  Luke,  though  the  children's  eyes  did 
not  direct  him  ;  and  he  said,  without  changing  his 
voice  :  — 

"  Children,  the  priest  is  here  !  " 

The  children  raised  their  heads  gently,  their  arms 
still  crossed  on  their  breasts,  and  bowed  towards 
Luke. 

"Now,"  said  the  teacher,  "you  will  pass  into  your 
desks,  and  sing 

'  In  the  sunshine ;  in  the  shadow.' " 


A   BOAST   AND   ITS    CONSEQUENCES  483 

The  children  moved  to  their  places,  singing  the  part 
song,  not  loudly,  but  sweetly  ;  and  the  master  turned 
towards  Luke.  A  grave,  silent  man  ;  his  attitude,  too, 
betokened  reverence.  He  was  a  man  of  middle  age  ; 
for  his  pointed  beard  was  streaked  with  white  hairs. 
He  was  tall  and  angular  in  appearance  ;  but  his  whole 
manner  was  subdued,  not  with  the  instinct  of  fear  and 
watchfulness,  but  with  the  gentleness  of  an  urbane  and 
thoughtful  spirit.  And  he  was  a  mystery,  which  was 
another  attraction  to  Luke.  He  had  an  only  daughter, 
a  girl  of  twenty  years  or  thereabouts,  living  with  him  ; 
but  his  antecedents  were  known  only  to  Dr.  Keatinge,  the 
pastor,  who  had  found  him  out  somewhere,  and  brought 
him  to  Kossmore  to  take  charge  of  his  little  school.  So 
much  Luke  had  heard  ;  and  then  dismissed  the  subject. 
It  was  trivial  and  commonplace.  In  his  former  visits, 
too,  he  had  seen  nothing  remarkable,  probably  because 
he  was  too  much  engrossed  with  his  own  reflections. 
To-day,  he  was  surprised  and  pleased. 

"  Where  did  you  find  material  for  that  excellent  dis- 
course !  "  said  Luke. 

"  In  my  own  experience,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Hennessy. 

"  How  have  you  trained  the  children  so  beautifully 
in  the  limited  time  at  your  disposal  ? "  asked  Luke, 
who  knew  well  the  red-tape  regulations  of  the  National 
Board. 

^  It  Avould  be  impossible,  sir,"  answered  the  teacher. 
"But  I  supplement  the  day's  teaching  at  night." 

"  At  night  ?  "  said  Luke,  wonderingly.  "  I  thought 
night-schools  wen^  tilings  of  tlie  past." 

''  We  don't  call  it  school,''  said  the  teacher.  '•  But, 
perhaps,  sir,  you  would  come  up  some  evening  to  see 
what  we  are  doing.     It  may  interest  you." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted."  said  Luke.  "•  But,  do  you 
often  s[)eak  to  the  cliildrcn  in  the  way  I  have  just 
heard  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  the  teacher,  though  this  was  supposed 
to  be  an  assumption  of  a  higher  privilege.  "  I  think 
the  moral  training  of  children  the  most  necessary  part 


484  LUKE  DELMEGE 

of  education.  The  National  Board  provides  for  the 
intellectual  department ;  there  is  the  mid-day  hour  for 
doctrinal  and  catechetical  instruction.  But  the  train- 
ing of  youth  in  moral  culture  must  be  left  to  the 
teacher  ;  and  in  my  humble  way,  I  try  to  discharge 
this  duty." 

"  With  your  permission  I  shall  come  up  this  even- 
ing," said  Luke.     "  At  what  hour  ?  " 

'^  We  hold  our  little  soirees,  sir,"  said  the  teacher, 
smiling,  "  we  dignify  them  by  that  name,  from  seven 
to  nine  o'clock." 

"  I  shall  be  there,"  said  Luke.  "  By  the  way,  how 
many  children  on  the  rolls  ?  " 

"  Fifty-six,"  said  the  teaclier. 

"  How  many  in  attendance  ?  " 

"  Fifty-six,"  said  the  teacher. 

In  the  evening  Luke  went  to  the  school.  It  was 
well  lighted  ;  and  it  looked  bright  and  cheerful  to  eyes 
that  had  just  brought  in  with  them  the  gloom  of  the 
night.  The  desks  were  unmoved ;  but  the  school  har- 
monium was  open ;  and  here  and  there  around  the 
room  full-blown  chrysanthemums  threw  out  their  col- 
oured blossoms  of  light  fragrance  and  great  loveliness. 
All  the  village  children  were  there  ;  the  country  chil- 
dren alone  were  absent.  The  master  touched  a  gong 
when  Luke  entered  ;  the  children  stood  up  respect- 
fully ;  and,  the  master's  daughter  presiding  at  the 
harmonium,  they  sang  a  pretty  glee  in  part  time  —  a 
composition  of  the  master's.  When  they  were  seated, 
the  master  read  for  them  a  poem  called  The  House  of 
Hate.  The  children  then  took  up  their  lessons  for  the 
following  day,  the  master's  daughter  moving  gently 
through  the  desks,  and  guiding  their  young  hands  and 
minds.  Meanwhile  Luke  and  the  master  were  in  close 
conference.  The  whole  system  appealed  strongly  to 
Luke's  sympathies  and  ideas.  Here,  at  least,  was 
positive,  practical  work.  No  note  of  criticism,  or  com- 
plaint ;  no  theorizing  about  great  political  possibili- 
ties ;  no  flinging  of  charges  ;  and  above  all,  and  this 


A   BOAST   AND   ITS   CONSEQUENCES  485 

touched  Luke  more  closely,  for  it  was  his  own  great 
weakness,  no  fretting  with  enigmas  ;  but  the  quiet  posi- 
tivism of  work,  ennobled  only  by  the  motive,  and  the 
great  possibilities  it  awakened.  And  it  was  quiet,  un- 
pretentious work,  unacknowledged  by  the  world  and 
unseen  —  the  work  of  great  principle  and  a  pure,  lofty 
mind. 

"  Why  do  you  insist  so  strongly  on  reverence  ?  "  said 
Luke.     "  It  seems  to  be  the  burden  of  all  your  teaching." 

"  Because  I  think,  sir,"  replied  the  master,  "  that  it 
is  the  secret  of  all  religion  ;  and  therefore  of  all  noble- 
ness." 

"  And  you  think  it  necessary  ?  " 

"I  think  it  the  first  necessity  for  our  race  and  for 
our  time." 

"  Our  race  ?  "  questioned  Luke,  with  opened  eyes. 

"  Yes,  sir.  We  are  always  alternating  between  rever- 
ence and  irreverence  in  Ireland.  Our  literature  and 
language  are  quite  full  of  sarcasms,  as  well  as  of  great 
ideas.  And  sarcasms  about  the  most  sacred  things. 
Great  wit  and  madness  are  nearly  allied.  So,  too,  are 
great  wit  and  irreligion." 

'^  But  now,"  said  Luke,  "  with  all  our  splendid  ideal- 
ism there  can  be  but  little  danger  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  master,  "except  that  one  ideal  may 
supplant  and  destroy  another.  All  ideals  are  0})pi)setl. 
At  least,"  he  said  modestly,  "  so  I  have  read.  Would 
you  kindly  say  a  word  to  the  children,  sir  ?  "  he  said, 
as  the  gong  again  sounded. 

"Certainly,"  said  Luke.  And  he  did,  generously, 
warmly,  emphatically.  It  was  work,  work,  with  an 
object.  And  Luke  realized  that  there  was  something 
in  life  beyond 

The  little  soul  for  the  little  that  holds  the  corpse,  which  is  man. 

At  eight  o'clock  all  work  was  suspended.  And  the 
remaining  hour  was  devoted  to  the  practice  of  singing, 
particularly  the  pre^iaration  of  Church  hymns,  etc., 
varied  with  the  little  glees  and  part  songs.    Just  before 


486  LUKE  DELMEGE 

nine  o'clock  the  master  read  a  chapter  from  the  Gospel 
of  St.  John,  recited  one  decade  of  the  Rosary,  and  the 
children  rose  up  to  depart.  The  master  and  his  daugh- 
ter stood  near  the  door.  As  the  children  passed  the 
latter,  they  bowed  respectfully.  The  master  took  each 
child  by  the  hand  as  they  passed  into  the  night.  There 
was  not  the  slightest  trace  of  the  familiarity  that  anni- 
hilates all  reverence. 

"  I  have  read  something  like  it  somewhere,"  solilo- 
quized Luke,  as  he  went  homewards.  "  '  Moral  culture,' 
'  reverence,'  '  attitudes,'  where  ?  " 

But  this  school  was  a  perpetual  wonder  and  attrac- 
tion to  him  during  these  years,  until  at  last  came  the 
great  cross,  and  behind  the  cross — the  great  illumination. 

The  aged  Canon  having  cast  aside  all  the  other  sub- 
ordinate anxieties  and  interests  of  life  retained  but  his 
love  for  his  niece,  Barbara  Wilson,  and  his  intense  and 
beautiful  pride  in  the  prosperity  of  his  parish.  This, 
indeed,  was  more  than  justified  by  the  happiness  of  his 
peo['le  ;  and  the  Canon's  parish  became  the  great  object- 
lesson  to  his  diocese  and  country.  And  eminent  political 
economists  came  from  afar  to  see  the  great  Sphinx-prob- 
lem of  Irish  contentment  solved,  once  and  forever.  Only 
one  held  out  against  the  general  enthusiasm  — one  scep- 
tic. Father  Cussen. 

"  You're  a  horrible  Cassandra,"  said  one  of  his  con- 
freres, "if  I  may  apply  the  term.  You  are  forever 
croaking  of  ruin  in  the  midst  of  success." 

"Time  will  tell,"  said  Father  Cussen. 

The  Canon's  recreation,  in  his  old  age,  when  he  rode 
no  longer,  and  cared  little  for  driving,  was  to  stroll 
down  in  the  evening  to  the  village  post-office,  and  there 
watch,  with  intense  gratification,  the  vast  piles  of  Irish 
agricultural  produce  that  were  about  to  be  sent  by  par- 
cel post  to  England.  It  was  a  rare  and  delightful  ex- 
hibition. Huge  canvas  bags  containing  poultry  ;  square 
boxes  full  of  rich,  yellow  butter;  cans  of  cream;  larger 
boxes  yet,  filled  with  consignments  of  eggs,  each  egg 


A   BOAST   AND   ITS   CONSEQUENCES  487 

nestling  in  its  own  dry  fresh  moss  ;  and  even  small  tin 
boxes  of  amber  honey  —  these  were  the  exports  that 
filled  the  little  office  to  the  ceiling,  and  made  iNIiss 
Carey,  the  postmistress,  declare,  again  and  again,  to  the 
infinite  delight  of  the  good  Canon,  that  the  Government 
should,  by  sheer  force  of  such  gentle  circumstances, 
build  a  new  post-office.  One  such  evening,  as  the  Canon 
entered  the  office,  he  saw  a  young  man,  leaning  against 
the  counter  and  chatting  with  Miss  Carey.  The  con- 
versation clearly  was  about  the  vast  resources  of  the 
parish,  for  the  young  man,  whom  the  Canon  took  to  be 
a  groom,  for  he  Avas  dressed  in  riding  suit  and  flicked 
his  boot  with  a  short  whip,  was  just  saying  :  — 

"■And  you  calculate  the  net  profits  from  this  admira- 
ble plan  .should  be  about — how  much  a  year  did  you 
say  ?  " 

"  The  Canon  knows  better  than  I,"  said  the  post- 
mistress. "  He  has  created  the  industry."  She  looked 
significantly  and  warningly  at  the  Canon  ;  but  the 
latter  took  no  heed. 

"I  have  carefully  —  ha  —  gone  into  details,  sir,""  he 
said  grandly,  "and  1  have  found  that,  season  with  sea- 
son, the  net  profits  of  these  agricultural  —  ha  —  exports 
average  from  fifty  to  eighty  pounds  a  week." 

"  You  quite  astonish  me,"  said  the  groom.  ''  I  did 
not  believe  tliat  such  things  were  possible  outside  v't 
l\(i\<xh\m  or  Normandy." 

This  might  have  shown  the  Canon  that  his  stranger 
was  not  a  groom  ;  and  Miss  Carey  hummed  significantly 
as  slie  stam[>ed  the  [)areels,  and  looked  at  the  Canon  in 
a  way  that  would  have  paralyzed  or  petrilied  any  one 
else.      But  the  Canon  went  on  :  — 

"  I  assure  you,  sir,"  he  said,  "  I  depreciate  rather  than 
—  ha — exaggei'ate  our  net  income  from  these  indus- 
tries. .My  parisli  has  been  called  'a  hapjty  Arcadia"  in 
the  midst  of  the  —  ha  —  howling  deserts  around."' 

"•  Tm  sure  I  congratulate  you,  sir,""  said  the  stranger, 
flicking  his  boctt  impatiently  with  his  whip.  '"A  noble 
peasantry  their  country's  pride  "  —  is  it  not  so  ?  " 


488  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  You  have  quoted  correctly,  sir,"  said  the  Canon. 
"The  peasantry  are  the  backbone  of  the  country." 

"  It  is  really  so  interesting,"  said  the  stranger,  taking 
out  a  notebook,  "  and  I  am  so  often  asked  in  my  —  well 
—  travels  about  the  prosperity  of  the  Irish  people,  that 
I  should  be  glad  to  have  it,  in  black  and  white,  from 
your  lips  that  such  an  account  can  be  authenticated. 
I  think  you  said  the  net  income  from  these  industries 
varies  from  fifty  to  eighty  pounds  a  week ;  that  is,  from 
three  to  four  thousand  per  annum  ?  " 

"  Precisely  so,  sir,"  said  the  Canon.  "And,  as  I  have 
said  already,  this  is  rather  under  than  over  the  real 
estimate." 

"It  is  really  most  interesting,"  said  the  stranger. 
"  I'm  sure  I'm  extremely  obliged  for  the  information. 
One  favour  more.     Whom  have  I  the  honour  of  address- 


ing^ 


"  The  pastor  of  this  parish,  sir,"  said  the  Canon,  with 
great  dignity.     "  Canon  Maurice  Murray." 

"  Oh,  I  should  have  known,"  said  the  stranger  with 
great  courtesy.  "  But  I  have  been  absent  on  my  travels 
for  some  years,  and  I  am  quite  unacquainted  with  this 
interesting  place.     I  have  the  honour  to  wish  you  good 


evening." 


"  Good  evening,  sir  !  "  said  the  Canon,  bowing  the 
stranger  out. 

"An  extremely  interesting  gentleman,"  said  he,  turn- 
ing to  the  postmistress.  "What  a  powerful  educational 
—  ha  —  factor  has  travelling  become  I  " 

Miss  Carey  did  not  reply. 

"  No  letter  from  Austria  or  Hungary  for  me  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  No,  sir  !  "  she  replied.  It  was  the  hundredth  time 
she  had  to  say  no  !  She  almost  wept  for  her  aged 
pastor. 

A  few  days  later  there  was  a  scene  in  a  certain  agent's 
office  in  Dublin.  The  clerks  saw  an  interchange  of 
courtesies  between  a  stranger  and  their  master  ;  heard 
themselves  peremptorily  ordered  from  the  office ;  thought 


A   BOAST   AND    ITS   CONSEQUENCES  489 

they  heard  heated  language  and  even  profane ;  and  one 
said  he  heard  the  swish  of  a  riding-whip  and  a  heavy 
scuffle  and  a  fall.  But,  no,  they  were  mistaken.  P'or 
Captain  Vermont  and  his  agent  were,  like  ]\lr.  Kipling's 
canonized  saints  —  "gentlemen,  every  one." 

But,  when  the  clerks  were  ordered  back  to  the  office, 
the  agent  was  gone  ;  and  there  only  remained  the 
stranger,  who  was  dressed  very  like  a  groom.  And  he 
was  very  pale,  and  trembling  with  excitement. 

"Which  of  you  is  head-clerk  here?"  he  said,  turning 
round. 

"  I,"  said  a  young  Scotchman.     "  Henry  Simpson." 

"Well,  Simpson,  you  take  charge  here,  until  1  ai)point 
another  agent.  I  am  Captain  Vermont.  And  when 
you  are  sending  out  notices  for  rent  on  my  estates  in 
Limerick  and  Kerry  —  when  is  next  rent  due?" 

"  The  twenty-ninth  of  September,"  said  Simpson. 

"  Well,  stop  that  reduction  of  twenty-five  per  cent.» 
and  call  in  all  arrears.     And,  mark  you,  all  of  you,  no 

more  —  nonsense.     By  G ,  I  won't  stand  it."     And 

Captain  Vermont  departed. 

And  so,  over  happy  Arcady,  the  model  parish  of 
Lough  and  Ardavine,  the  shadow  fell  —  the  shadow 
long  threatened,  but  never  feared.  For  had  they  not 
their  mighty  Samson,  i)atriarch  and  king  ?  and  was  it 
not  a  tradition  in  the  parish,  that  landlords  and  agents 
scurried  about  and  looked  for  rat-holes  to  hide  them 
from  the  terrors  of  his  face  ?  He  was  indignant.  The 
old  leonine  spirit  woke  within  him,  when  he  found  his 
people  in  danger.  At  first  he  lauglied  the  threats  of 
the  agent's  office  to  scorn.  Call  in  arrears  I  Nonsense  I 
They  dare  not  do  it.  But,  when  the  rumble  of  the 
smooth  mechanism  of  British  law  began  to  be  heard 
afar  off,  and  writs  came  to  be  served  on  two  or  three 
of  the  principal  parishioners,  the  Canon  saw  that  busi- 
ness was  meant.  He  called  his  people  together,  and 
told  them  he  was  going  to  Dublin  to  settle  the  matter 
without  further  ado.  They  gave  a  mighty  cheer:  and 
felt  the   battle  was  won.     Fatlier   Cussen   was   silent. 


490  LUKE  DELMEGE 

He  called  his  league  together ;  and  bound  them  sol- 
emnly to  stand  firmly  shoulder  to  shoulder.  He  then 
demanded  their  receipts  from  the  rent  office.  They 
brought  the  grimy  bundles  —  yellow,  stained,  rumpled, 
torn.  He  examined  them  closely.  Quite  so !  The 
very  thing  he  expected. 

'^  Did  you  pay  your  March  rent  ?  "  he  said  to  one  of 
the  farmers. 

"■  To  be  sure  I  did,  yer  reverence,"  he  replied. 

"  Did  you  get  a  receipt  in  full  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  To  be  sure  I  did,"  the  farmer  replied.  "  There  'tis 
in  your  hand,  yer  reverence." 

''  This  can't  be  the  receipt,"  said  Father  Cussen.  "It 
is  dated  five  years  back." 

"  'Tis  the  last  resate  I  got,"  said  the  farmer,  thor- 
oughly frightened. 

"  Quite  so.  And  you  see  there  are  due  five  years' 
arrears,  amounting  to  over  X260." 

Father  Cussen  examined  all  the  other  receipts.  One 
by  one  was  antedated,  thus  certifying  to  arrears 
due. 

The  fire  that  burned  so  hotly  in  the  aged  Canon's 
breast  on  his  journey  to  Dublin,  burned  up  also  his 
little  physical  strength.  And  it  was  a  bowed  and 
weary  man  that  tottered  down  the  steps  of  the  Shel- 
bourne  Hotel  next  morning.  The  waiter  helped  him 
to  the  pavement. 

"  Shall  I  call  a  cab,  sir  ?  " 

"Oh  I  no,"  said  the  Canon.  "I  feel  quite  strong  — 
ha  —  quite  vigorous  !  " 

The  excitement  of  entering  the  agent's  office,  and 
making  a  mighty  stand  for  his  poor  people,  gave  him  a 
little  unnatural  vigour,  as  he  asked,  in  his  own  grand 
way,  the  group  of  clerks  that  were  writing  behind  the 
screen  : — 

"  Can  I  see  Mr.  Noble  this  morning  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Simpson,  shortly,  "you  cannot." 

"Then  when  might  I  have  the  —  ha  —  honour  of  an 
interview  with  Mr.  Noble  ?  "  said  the  Canon. 


I 


I 


A   BOAST   AND    ITS   CONSEQUENCES  491 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Simpson,  "  whenever  you  have  the 
honour  of  meeting  him." 

"  I  regard  that  reply  as  an  impertinence,  sir,"  said 
the  Canon. 

"Now,  look  here,  old  gentleman,"  said  Simpson, 
coolly,  "if  you  have  missed  your  way,  and  stra3'ed  in 
here,  the  porter  will  direct  you  back  to  your  hotel,  or 
place  of  residence." 

"I'm  really  —  ha  —  surprised,"  gasped  the  Canon. 
"This  is  so  utterly  unexpected.  Perhaps  you  do  not 
—  ha  —  know  who  I  am." 

"  I  have  not  that  honour,"  said  Simpson,  "  and  to  be 
very  candid,  I  don't  much  care." 

"I  pass  by  that  gross  discourtesy,  sir,"  said  the 
Canon,  "as  I'm  here  on  business.  My  name  is  Mau- 
rice Canon  Murray,  parish  priest  of  Lough  and  Arda- 
vine." 

"  Well,  Maurice  Canon  Murray,  parish  priest  of 
Lough  and  Ardavine,  would  you  now  state  your  busi- 
ness as  briefly  as  possible,  for  our  time  is  precious  ?  " 

"I  came,  sir,"  said  the  Canon,  "to  inquire  the  mean- 
ing or  object  of  this  gross  outrage  on  my  parishioners." 

"  What  outrage  do  you  speak  of  ?  "  queried  Simpson. 

"This  serving  of  writs,  and  demand  for  a  wholly  un- 
reasonable rent,"  said  the  Canon. 

"You  call  yourself  a  Christian  clergyman,"  said  Simp- 
son, "and  represent  a  legitimate  demand  for  moneys 
due,  and  which,  under  proper  management,  would  have 
been  paid  at  any  time  for  the  last  five  years,  —  an  out- 
rage  ! 

"I  see,"  said  the  Canon,  wlio  fell  his  strt-ngili  rapidly 
ebbing  away,  "that  it  is — ha  —  us(^4rss  —  to  discuss 
matters  with  a  subordinatf.  Please  let  me  know  Cap- 
tain Vermont's  Dublin  address." 

"  lie  has  no  City  address,"  said  Simpson.  "  His  coun- 
try address  you  should  know  better  than  L" 

"I  regret  to  say  —  ha — 1  have  not  —  the  honour  — 
of  Captain  Vermont's  acquaintance,"  said  the  Canon,  as 
the  room  began  to  swim  around. 


V 


492  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  Oh  !  dear  ;  yes,  you  have,"  said  Simpson.  "  At 
least  it  was  you  that  gave  Captain  Vermont  the  happy 
information  that  he  was  steadily  robbed  of  three  or  four 
thousand  a  year  by  your  excellent  parishioners." 

"Me,  sir?  How  dare  you,  sir?  That  is  an  un  — 
sertion  —  rantable  —  wa  —  please,  might  —  chair  — 
have  ?  " 

One  of  the  clerks  rushed  out  and  placed  the  falling 
Canon  in  a  chair. 

"  Yes,"  said  Simpson,  bitterly  and  mercilessly  ;  "  and 
they  would  have  met  their  demands  were  it  not  for  the 
interference  of  disloyal  and  turbulent  priests  like  you  —  " 

"  Stop  that,  Simpson,"  said  the  clerk,  who  held  the 
fainting  Canon  upright  in  his  chair.  "  Don't  you  see 
the  gentleman  is  fainting  ?  " 

"  Me,  sir  —  distur  —  loyal  —  turb  —  " 

"What  is  your  hotel,  sir,  please?  and  I  shall  fetch  a 
cab." 

'•'•  Shel  —  tel,"  murmured  the  broken  voice,  as  the  lips 
fell  twisted  by  paralysis,  and  the  right  hand  lay  helpless 
at  the  side. 

"  The  Shelbourne  !  "  cried  one  of  the  clerks.  "  Quick, 
Harris,  or  we  shall  have  an  inquest  here  !  " 

And  so  the  poor  Canon,  on  his  mission  of  mercy,  met 
the  first  forerunner  of  dissolution  in  an  agent's  office. 
His  limp,  heavy  form  was  pushed  into  a  cab,  and,  in  an 
unconscious  condition,  he  was  carried  to  the  Mater  Hos- 
pital, where  he  remained  many  a  weary  month.  And 
despair  settled  down  on  Lough  and  Ardavine.  They 
had  the  bonfires  built  that  were  to  celebrate  the  Canon's 
triumphal  return,  and  the  League  Band  that  had  sere- 
naded him  so  many  years  ago,  and  tried  to  infuse  some 
patriotism  into  him,  was  practising,  "  See  the  Conquer- 
insf  Hero  Comes  !  "  Then  the  news  arrived.  Their 
king,  their  patriarch,  their  mighty  champion,  was 
stricken  down  in  the  fight.     And  what  hope  remained  ? 


CHAPTER   XXXVII 

DISILLUSION 

Wearily  and  anxiously  the  months  passed  by  in  the 
parish  of  Lough  and  Ardavine.  All  work  was  at  a 
standstill.  The  people  were  paralyzed.  No  one  knew, 
from  day  to  day,  when  the  dread  messengers  of  the  law 
would  swoop  down  and  commence  the  work  of  destruc- 
tion. The  post-ollice  was  now  empty.  The  postmistress 
was  idle.  The  great  export  trade  of  the  parish  was  a 
thing  of  tlie  past.  Worst  of  all,  the  great  father  and 
friend  was  lying  on  his  bed  of  sickness  in  a  Dublin  hos- 
pital. They  had  not  heard  from  him  for  some  time  ; 
and  tlien  liis  message  was  fairly  hopeful.  He  assured 
them  that  the  landlord  would  not  proceed  to  extremities. 
He  was  partly  riglit.  The  case  had  got  into  the  Eng- 
lish press ;  for  the  buyers  at  Manchester  were  losing 
heavily  by  the  enforced  inactivity  of  their  clients  in  Ire- 
land ;  and  the  Canon  had  written  from  his  sick-bed  a 
strong  letter  to  the  Dublin  and  London  press  on  this 
new  instance  of  injustice  and  rapacity.  And  so  the 
office  hesitated  to  enforce  instructions,  repeatedly  re- 
ceived from  the  landlord  in  Paris  ;  and  all  was  wrapped 
in  surmise  and  uncertainty. 

Father  Cussen  was  savagely  exultant.  His  prophecy 
was  fulfilled  to  the  letter.  He  had  foreseen  the  evil 
day  and  was  prepared  for  it.  It  was  sure  to  come,  he 
said.  Better  now  tlian  later  on.  One  sharp  tussle  : 
and  their  tenure  was  secure  forever.  Only  let  them 
stand  shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  all  the  might  of  Eng- 
land could  not  dislodge  them. 

Luke  went  over  to  Lisnalee.     The  good  old    father 

493 


i94  LUKE  DELMEGE 

was  grievously  troubled.  Lizzie  and  her  husband  were 
anxious,  but  determined.  Was  there  no  chance  of  a 
settlement,  asked  Luke. 

"  None  whatever.  The  landlord  was  demanding  an 
impossibility.  That  margin  of  twenty-five  per  cent,  re- 
duction just  kept  them  afloat,  and  gave  them  heart  to 
carry  on  their  industries.  If  they  paid  that,  all  the 
profits  of  their  skill  and  labour  were  sacrificed.  And 
then,  to  demand  arrears,  due  over  thirty  years — the 
thing  was  monstrous  I  " 

Father  Cussen  said  the  same,  adding:  "You  see, 
Luke,  it's  all  your  beautiful  law  and  order  I  The  man 
is  doing  a  strictly  legal  thing;  and  a  strictly  brutal 
thing.  He  wants  this  three  or  four  thousand  a  year, 
which  your  sister  here  and  the  rest  are  making,  not  out 
of  the  improved  condition  of  his  property,  but  from 
their  own  industry.  He  wants  it  to  stake  it  on  the  red 
at  Monte  Carlo ;  and  he  must  have  it,  or  ruin !  And 
the  law  says.  Yes!  It  is  brutal,  but  strictly  legal! 
And  it  will  be  carried  out  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet." 

Luke  returned  to  Rossmore  with  a  heavy  heart,  full 
of  forebodings. 

There  was  a  great  mission  given  in  the  parish  of  Ross- 
more  during  the  month  of  May  in  that  year.  Like  all 
missions  in  Ireland  it  was  well  attended.  People  flocked 
from  near  and  far  to  hear  the  sermons,  and  go  to  con- 
fession. The  good  Fathers  had  a  busy  time,  and  Luke 
was  kept  in  the  church  from  early  morn  till  late  at  night. 
This  distracted  his  thoughts,  and  made  him  happy.  The 
closing  demonstration  —  that  most  touching  ceremony 
of  the  renewal  of  baptismal  vows  —  was  a  wonderful 
sight.  There  were  over  fifteen  hundred  persons  in  the 
large  church.  The  heat  was  stifling ;  but  they  did  not 
heed  it.  Mothers  brought  their  babies  from  their 
cradles,  lest  they  should  lose  the  glory  and  benediction 
of  that  night ;  and  they  held  the  tiny  fingers  around 
the  wax  candles,  and  spoke  their  vows  even  for  the 
little  ones,  who  had  no  need  of  renewal.  All  felt  re- 
generated after  a  good  confession  and  communion  ;  all 


DISILLUSION  495 

were  happy,  with  that  strange,  beautiful  sense  of  light- 
ness and  peace  that  one  feels  after  a  good  sincere  con- 
fession; all  were  prepared  to  live  for  God,  and  to  die 
rather  than  fall  into  the  hands  of  His  enemy.  Luke 
was  more  than  happy ;  he  was  buoyant,  even  enthusi- 
astic. He  had  had  a  glorious  week's  work,  and  he  felt 
sustained  by  the  mighty  tonic.  And  he  knew  his  good 
pastor  was  pleased  and  gratified  ;  and  this,  too,  was  a 
great  pleasure.  But  there  will  be  always  some  little 
accident  to  mar  great  events  ;  and  it  occurred  this  even- 
ing. One  poor  fellow  forgot  himself;  but,  notwith- 
standing his  condition,  he  had  insisted  on  coming  to 
the  closing  of  the  mission.  He  kept  fairly  quiet  during 
the  sermon  ;  but  just  before  the  candles  were  lighted 
for  the  concluding  ceremony,  he  became  troublesome. 
Luke  saw  the  commotion,  and,  gliding  down  by  the 
side  aisle,  he  ordered  the  delinquent  to  rise  up  and  fol- 
low him.  The  poor  fellow  obeyed,  and  came  out  into 
the  yard.  Luke  ordered  him  home.  But  this  was  re- 
sisted. The  young  man  stood,  with  legs  wide  apart, 
and  swaying  to  and  fro.  His  candle,  bent  witli  the 
heat,  was  twisted  around  his  hand,  and  he  was  weeping 
and  blubbering  like  a  child. 

"  Come  now,  like  a  good  fellow,"  said  Luke  ;  "  go 
home,  and  no  one  will  miss  you." 

"  I  wo'not  go  home,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  wants  the 
bilifit  of  the  bission  ;   I  do  —  a." 

"How  can  you  gain  any  spiritual  benefit  in  your 
present  state  ?  "  protested  Luke.  "  Go  home,  and  go 
to  bed." 

"  I  wo'not  go  homo,"  the  poor  fellow  protested. 
''Oh  !  oh!  to  be  tuined  out  ov  the  House  of  God,  and 
the  last  night  of  the  bission  I     Oh  !  oh  !  " 

"  'Twas  your  own  fault,"  said  Luke.  "  You  liave 
disgraced  us  all  to-night.  Go  home  now,  like  a  good 
fellow  !  " 

"I  wo'not  go  home,"  he  replied,  weeping.  '•  I  wants 
to  go  back  to  the  House  of  God,  an'  to  get  the  bilifit  of 
the  bission.     Oh  !   I  do  —  a." 


496  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  You  shall  not  return  to  the  church,"  said  Luke,  de- 
terminedly. "  I  cannot  have  the  congregation  disturbed 
this  evening.  There,  I'll  get  some  one  to  take  you  home. 
You  can  sleep  it  off,  and  come  to-morrow  for  the  pledge. 
There,  your  candle  is  gone  and  'tis  all  over." 

That  extinguished  candle  was  decisive.  The  poor 
fellow  turned  away,  ashamed  and  sorrowful,  and  went 
towards  his  home  in  misery. 

Luke  was  very  angry.  He  quite  ignored  the  vast, 
pious  congregation  inside,  and  the  glorious  work  that 
had  been  wrought  during  the  week.  He  saw  only  the 
one  blot,  and  that  saying,  "the  bilifit  of  the  bission," 
haunted  him  during  the  week.  He  had  worked  him- 
self into  the  fine  fury  of  those  who  are  angry  and  sin 
not,  by  Sunday  morning  ;  and  at  last  Mass  on  that  day 
he  delivered  a  fierce  invective  on  the  abuse  of  divine 
grace,  on  the  folly  of  mistaking  the  means  for  the  end, 
on  the  superstition  of  supposing  that  the  mission  w^as  a 
light  coat  of  armour,  that  would  save  them  from  relaps- 
ing during  the  year,  without  any  corresponding  effort 
on  their  part  to  cooperate  with  grace,  etc. 

On  Monday  morning  he  set  out  on  his  annual  holiday. 
It  was  now  ten  years  since  he  had  left  England,  and 
although  repeatedly  invited  by  his  old  confreres  to  cross 
the  Channel,  he  had  alwa5^s  declined.  He  dreaded  the 
return  of  his  first  experience  of  the  contrasts  between 
the  countries.  He  was  now  fairly  happy ;  and  he  did 
not  care  to  plunge  again  into  the  fearful  despondency 
that  haunted  him  during  his  first  years  on  the  home 
mission.  But  now  he  had  cast  the  past  so  thoroughly 
behind  him  that  he  no  longer  dreaded  the  experience  ; 
and  he  had  a  secret  longing  to  see  once  more  the  place 
where  he  had  spent  the  first  years  of  his  priesthood,  and 
the  faces  of  old  friends.  He  called  at  the  Cathedral. 
All  was  changed  here.  The  old  staff  had  passed  away, 
removed  by  promotion  or  death  ;  and  new  faces  were 
all  around  him.  There  were  the  old  dining-room  and 
library  ;  there  was  the  table  where  he  was  drawing  his 
map  when  suddenly  ordered  to  Aylesburgh  ;  there  his 


DISILLUSION  497 

bedroom.  But  the  Bishop?  Dead.  The  good,  kind 
old  Vicar  ?  Dead.  Sheldon  ?  Gone  to  Aylesburgh. 
Oh,  3es  !  he  knew  that.  That  faithful  friend  had  never 
forgotten  his  Irish  comrade ;  in  fact,  it  was  Father 
Sheldon's  querulous  invitation  that  had  conquered 
Luke's  repugnance  to  visit  England  again.  Was  his 
name  remembered  ?  Oh,  yes.  The  story  of  his  struggle 
with  the  Bishop  for  the  Cappa  magna  had  come  down  by 
tradition  ;  for,  whenever  a  young  priest  tried  to  put 
that  splendid  vestment  on  the  Bishop,  he  was  warned, 
Remember  Delmege !  Oh,  yes  !  And  it  was  also  re- 
membered that  he  it  was  who  had  brought  around  the 
lamentable  apostasy  of  Halleck. 

"  It's  an  utter  and  calumnious  falsehood,"  said  Luke. 

They  lifted  their  eyebrows  and  looked  at  one  another.' 
Luke  was  glad  to  get  away. 

Father  Sheldon,  really  delighted  to  see  his  old  friend, 
received  him  in  English  fashion,  with  cool,  courteous 
welcome. 

"  Good  heavens  ! "  thought  Luke  ;  "they're  all  stricken 
into  stone.  " 

liy-and-l)ye  Father  Sheldon  thawed  out,  and  the  old 
spirit  of  camaraderie  revived. 

"  The  years  are  telling  on  us  all,  Delmege,"  he  said. 
'*  I'm  as  bald  as  Julius  Cuisar,  and  you  have  more  silver 
than  silk  in  your  locks." 

"  Everything  seems  changed  hero,"  said  Luke.  "  I'm 
just  wondering  how  I  ever  liked  tliis  place." 

He  looked  around  and  contrasted  this  place  with  his 
own  little  home  in  Rossmore.  He  thouffiit  of  his  jrar- 
den,  liis  flowers,  his  books,  his  pictures,  liis  horse,  his 
freedom,  the  total  absence  of  anxiety  about  debts,  his 
sense  of  freedom  from  responsibility,  the  patient  gentle- 
ness of  his  people,  their  reverence,  their  love. 

"  How  is  John  Godfrey  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Dead." 

"And  Mrs.  Bluett?" 

"  Dead." 

"  And  the  Lefevrils  ?  " 

2k 


498  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  Clotilde  is  married  to  your  friend  Halleck.  The 
others  are  in  the  South  of  Europe,  Cap  St.  Martin,  or 
some  other  English  hive." 

"  But  Halleck  is  not  here  ?  "  said  Luke,  somewhat 
nervously. 

"  Oh,  no.  He  gives  lectures  occasionally  at  the  Royal 
Society ;  picks  up  stray  apostates  from  France  or  Italy, 
lionizes  them,  and  then  drops  them." 

"  Then  he  has  never  returned  to  the  Church  ?  " 

"Never.     You  put  a  bad  hand  in  him." 

"  If  I  didn't  know  you  were  joking,  Sheldon,  I  would 
resent  that  remark.  They  flung  it  at  me  at  the  Cathe- 
dral also.  It  appears  to  be  the  one  unfragrant  memory 
I  have  left.     And  Clotilde  ?  " 

"Remains  an  artist,  and  haunts  South  Kensington." 

"  But  her  religion  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she's  an  'eclectic'  So  she  says.  Which,  as  you 
know,  is  another  and  a  prettier  name  for  heretic." 

"  And  poor  old  Drysdale  !  Gone  too,  to  his  reward. 
He  was  a  good  man.  He  never  knew  how  much  I  rev- 
erenced him  ;  and  how  grateful  I  am  for  his  example." 

"  So  he  was,"  said  Father  Sheldon,  rising.  "  Now, 
you'll  spend  all  your  holidays  here,  Delraege  ;  and  get 
up  one  or  two  of  your  fine  sermons.  No  heresy,  though, 
mind." 

Luke  was  going  to  protest  again.  But  Father  Sheldon 
continued  blandly  :  "  Ah,  what  a  pity,  Delmege,  you 
didn't  let  me  draw  that  tooth  that  day  by  the  Serpen- 
tine.    You  would  be  here  with  us  to-day." 

"  Thank  God  for  that,  whatever,"  said  Luke.  "  I'll 
stroll  around,  and  see  if  I  can  recognize  any  old 
faces." 

He  passed  along  the  High  Street,  and  recalled  to 
memory  the  names  over  the  shop  doors.  He  visited 
one  Catholic  house.  It  was  a  large  commercial  estab- 
lishment. The  shop  girls  stared  at  him.  Was  Mrs. 
Atkins  at  home  ?  No  ;  but  Miss  Atkins  could  be  seen. 
Miss  Atkins  tripped  downstairs,  and  stared.  Oh,  yes ! 
she  had  heard  mother  speak  of  Father  Delmege,  who 


DISILLUSION  499 

had  ministered  there  many  years  ago.  Perhaps  he 
would  call  again,  when  mother  might  be  at  home. 

"  How  did  I  ever  come  to  love  these  strange  people?  " 
asked  Luke  of  himself,  as  lie  passed  down  the  street. 
"I  must  have  been  mesmerized." 

He  turned  from  a  side  street  and  found  himself  in 
Primrose  Lane.  It  was  abominably  paved  with  huge 
rough  stones,  and  an  open  gutter  ran  down  the  centre 
of  the  lane  to  the  river.  But  it  was  dear  to  him.  He 
had  visited  it  in  the  broiling  days  of  midsummer.  He 
had  slipped  over  these  horrid  stones  in  frosty  January. 
He  had  always  l)een  welcome. 

"■  Dead  and  forgotten  here,  too,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 
He  became  aware  of  loud  whispering  behind  him  from 
the  open  doors. 

"  'Tis  him  !  "  "  'Tisn't  !  "  "I  tell  you  'tis  him  ! 
Wouldn't  I  know  his  grand  walk  annywhere  !  " 
"■  Yerra,  not  at  all.  Sure,  he's  away  in  the  ould  coun- 
thry  !  "  "•  But  I  say  it  is,  'uman  !  I'd  know  him  if  he 
was  biled  !  " 

In  an  instant  every  door  was  blocked.  There  was  a 
hurried  consultation,  some  doubtings  and  fears  ;  and 
then  Mrs.  Moriarty,  rubbing  her  hands  fiercely  in  her 
check  apron,  burst  from  her  door.  Hung  lierself  on  her 
knees  on  the  rough  stones ;  and  sob])ing,  laughing, 
weeping,  smiling,  she  grasped  I^uke's  hands,  covered 
them  with  passionate  kisses,  whilst  her  great  love  tum- 
bled out  word  after  word,  jostling  one  another  in  their 
fury  of  affection. 

'"  Oh  I  wisha  !  M'isha  1  did  I  ever  think  I'd  see  this 
day?  Oh  I  asthore  maehree  !  pulse  of  my  heart  I  Oh  I 
a  liundred  thousand  welcomes  this  l)lessed  day  ! 
Oh!  praise  be  to  You,  sweet  Lord  an'  Youi-  Holy 
IVIother  !  Oh  !  Father,  sure  we  thought  we"<l  never 
see  you  again  I  Yerra,  come  here,  Mary  McCarthy  ! 
Yerra,  what's  come  over  ve  all  ?  Don't  ve  know  vere 
own  priest  ?  Yerra,  yer  reverence,  manny  and  manny's 
tlie  time  Ave  spoke  of  you  !  Oil  !  Avisha  I  wisha  I 
wisha  !  and  here  he  is  agin  !     Yerra,  and  I  forgot  to  ask 


■*" 

500  LUKE  DELMEGE 

ye,  how  are  ye?  An'  I  suppose  ye're  a  parish  priest 
now  in  the  ould  counthry  !  "     And  da  cajjo. 

"  Wisha,  yer  reverence,"  said  another,  "  sure  'tis  we're 
glad  to  see  you.  An'  here's  little  Mary,  yer  rever- 
ence ;  sure  you  ought  to  know  her  !  'Twas  you  bap- 
tized her  !  " 

"  And  this  is  Jamesy,  yer  reverence  !  Don't  you 
remimber,  how  you  said  he  was  winkin'  at  you  all  the 
time  of  the  christenin',  because  he  had  wan  eye  open  all 
the  time  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Lor',  sure  the  min  will  never  forgive  theirselves 
for  being  away  this  blessed  day.  Mike  will  murdher 
us  all.     That's  all  about  it." 

"  But,  perhaps  yer  reverence  won't  be  goin'  away  so 
soon  ?  Maybe  the  min  would  have  a  chance  of  seein' 
ye?" 

"  I  shall  remain  for  a  few  days  with  Father  Sheldon," 
said  Luke.  "  He  has  kindly  asked  me  to  remain  over 
Sunday,  and  to  say  a  few  words  to  my  old  congrega- 
tion." 

"  Is't  to  prache,  yer  reverence?  Oh,  glory,  did  ye 
hear  that,  Mary  ?  Did  ye  hear  that,  Kate  ?  His  rever- 
ence is  goin'  to  prache  on  Sunday.  Every  Prodestan' 
in  the  city  will  be  there  !  " 

"Wisha,  yer  reverence,  not  makin'  little  of  the 
priests  here,  we  niver  hard  a  right  sarmon  since  ye 
left." 

"  That's  thrue  for  ye,  thin.  Sure  they  mane  well, 
poor  min,  but  they  haven't  the  flow." 

"  Look  here,"  said  Luke,  deeply  touched  by  this 
ovation,  "  ye  must  all  come  back  with  me  to  Ireland. 
That's  all  about  it.  Ireland  is  your  motherland,  and 
she  wants  ye  all." 

"  We  wish  we  could,  yer  reverence,  a  thousand  times 
over.  But  where's  the  use  ?  We've  a  little  livin'  here, 
which  the  bailiffs  and  the  landlords  wouldn't  give  us  at 
home." 

"  That's  true,  too,  Kate,"  said  Luke,  remembering  his 
own  impending  troubles. 


DISILLUSION  501 

"An'  sure  they're  sayin'  the  people  are  all  lavin' 
the  ould  counthry,  yer  reverence,  an'  flying  to  Amer- 
icky?" 

"The  fools  are,"  said  Luke.  "They  could  live  at 
home  if  they  liked.  But  what's  become  of  all  my  little 
Italians?  " 

"  Oh,  they're  here  yet,  your  reverence,"  said  Mrs. 
Moriarty,  with  a  little  pitying  smile  of  racial  superiority. 
Then,  going  over  to  the  foot  of  a  staircase,  she  shouted  : 
"  Come  down  at  wance,  Jo  Kimo.  Are  ye  there,  Car- 
rotty?  Come  down  at  wance,  I  say,  an'  see  yere  own 
priest." 

"  Don't  spake  about  the  monkey,"  she  warned  Luke. 
"  Sure,  he's  dead  ;  an'  the  poor  man  feels  it,  as  if  it  wor 
his  child." 

And  (iioixcchimo  and  Carita  and  Stefano  came  down, 
and  smiled  and  wept,  and  kissed  the  priest's  hand  ;  and 
he  caressed  them  with  words  of  their  own  beautiful 
language ;  and  went  away,  feeling  in  his  heart  for  the 
hundredth  time  the  truth  of  his  sister's  words  :  "  Love 
the  poor,  Luke,  and  'twill  make  life  all  sunshiny." 

And  he  wondered  how  he  ever  came  to  love  tliis  grav, 
ashen  city;  with  its  lamps  and  asphalt;  and  icy  for- 
malities, except  in  that  one  spot,  brightened  by  the 
aliens.  And  he  thought  with  what  joy  he  would  get 
back  to  Kossmore,  and  its  mountains,  and  plantations, 
and  its  pretty  cottages,  and  the  dear  love  of  his  jieople. 
And  he  resolved  to  buy  a  new  set  of  breviaries  fur  his 
dear  old  pastor,  with  good  large  print  to  suit  the  oUl 
man's  eyes  ;  and  a  workbox  for  Mary,  that  would  make 
her  big  eyes  twice  as  large  with  wonder;  and  a  grand 
chibouque  for  .b.hn,  that  would  be  the  talk  and  admira- 
tion of  the  comitryside. 

"Come  over;  come  ov(m-,"  ho  said,  when  bidding 
good-bye  to  Father  Sheldon,  "  Come  over,  all  you  Sax- 
ons, and  we'll  show  you  our  green  fields,  and  our  glori- 
ous mountains,  and  our  seas  :  and  we'll  put  some  of  the 
love  of  (xod  into  your  cold  Jn'aits." 

But  Father  Sheldon  only  laughed. 


502  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  No,  thank  you  !     I  haven't  many  years  to  live  ;  but 
I  don't  care  for  a  sudden  and  unprovided  death." 

And  so  the  friends  parted. 

"  To  put  the  thought  of  England  out  of  my  head  for- 
ever," thought  Luke,  as  he   passed  through   London,  | 
"  lest  the  idea  should  ever  revive  again,  I'll  see  it  at  its 
worst." 

And  he  went  down  to  the  Bank  and  the  Exchange. 
Before  he  realized  it,  he  Avas  wedged  in  by  a  huge  bank 
of  humanity — a  swirling,  tossing  mass,  moved  hither 
and  thither  by  some  common  impulse,  that  seemed  to 
make  them  utterly  oblivious  of  each  other.  Pale-faced 
men,  all  dressed  in  morning  costume,  silk  hat,  morning 
dress-coat,  gloves,  glided  along  singly  or  in  twos  or 
threes;  but  every  face  wore  an  expression  of  intense 
anxiety,  as  men  questioned  each  other,  or  frantically 
dragged  note-books  from  their  pockets  and  jotted  down 
something  with  trembling  hands.  He  passed  through 
into  the  Exchange.  Here  again  was  a  swirling,  well- 
dressed  crowd.  Groups  here  and  there  discussed  some 
mighty  problem ;  clerks,  with  bent  heads,  jotted  down 
names  and  investments ;  you  heard  everywhere  :  "  Santa 
Fes,"  "Orientals,"  "  Kimberleys,"  "Tanaga  Mines," 
"  Great  Westerns,"  "  Durnley  Tyres."  It  was  a  horrid 
Babel ;  and  it  was  made  worse  by  the  accents  of  calm 
despair  with  which  one  man  announced  his  failure  and 
his  ruin,  and  the  tone  of  calm  triumph  with  which  an- 
other boasted  the  successful  issue  of  some  perilous 
investment.  The  air  was  hot  and  thick  with  the  breath 
of  many  mouths  and  the  dust  of  many  feet.  But  they 
heeded  not.  They  worshipped  at  the  shrine  of  the 
great  god  Mammon.  Luke  stared  around  for  the  idol. 
There  were  white  marble  statues  erected  here  and  there  ± 
to  successful  worshippers  of  the  past.  But  there  was  no  ^ 
idol,  no  image  of  the  great  god  himself.  No  need.  He  ^.. 
was  enshrined  in  every  heart  ;  and  lo  !  here  was  a  vie-  ;5| 
tim.  A  young  man  leaned  heavily,  as  if  drunk,  against 
the  wall,  his  feet  wide  apart,  his  hat  far  back  on  his 
head.     He  was  the  very  picture  of  despair.     Luke  saw 


DISILLUSION  503 

one  gentleman  nodding  to  another,  and  winking  over 
his  shoulder  at  the  ruined  man  :  — 

"  Better  see  Angland  safe  to  his  own  door !  " 

Luke  fled  from  the  Mart  of  Mammon. 

The  next  evening  Luke  was  in  Dublin  at  seven  o'clock. 
He  went  out  after  dinner  to  finish  his  Office,  say  his 
Rosary,  and  make  his  visit.  He  strolled  into  Gardiner 
Street  Cliurch.  The  twilight  outside  was  deepened  into 
gloom  within  the  walls ;  j^et  he  could  see  that  the  church 
was  pretty  full  with  devout  worshippers  here  and  there. 
He  passed  up  along  the  central  aisle,  and  got  into  a 
quiet  nook  under  the  Lady  Altar.  He  was  bent  down 
for  a  few  minutes  in  prayer.  When  he  raised  his  head, 
he  found  he  was  wedged  in  a  dense  crowd  that  filled  the 
benches  on  every  side,  and  left  no  possibility  of  escape. 
Tliey  were  of  all  classes,  ages,  and  conditions  of  life,  as 
Luke  saw,  when  in  a  moment  the  whole  church  was 
brilliantly  lighted,  and  the  great  organ  pealed  forth  with 
a  sweet  hymn  to  our  Blessed  Lady.  He  noticed  beads 
in  all  hands  —  fifteen  decade  beads  in  tlie  liands  of  the 
young  girls. 

"  AVhat's  going  on  ?  "  he  whispered  to  a  venerable 
old  man  by  his  side. 

"  A  novena  for  Pentecost,"  he  wliispered. 

The  Rosary  was  then  recited  the  moment  the  red- 
robed  acolytes  had  taken  their  places  in  a  corona  around 
the  liigh  altar.  After  the  Rosary  a  sermon  was  preached 
on  the  first  gift  of  tlie  Holy  Ghost  —  wisdom. 

"Who's  the  preacher?"  whispered  Luke  to  his 
neighbour. 

"Father ,"'  was  the  reply.     "  A  grand  man,  j-our 

reverence  !  " 

"  I'm  in  Iroh\nd  for  a  surety,"  thought  Luke. 

lie  was  dying  for  a  cup  of  tea  ;  but  there  was  no 
escape  until  Benediction  was  over,  at  nine  o'clock. 

Next  morning  lie  presented  himself  at  the  same 
church  to  say  Mass.  As  lie  passed  up  the  corridor  to 
the  left  of  the  church,  he  saw  a  number  of  men  await- 
ing confession.    They,  too,  were  young  and  well-dressed. 


504  LUKE  DELMEGE 

in  morning  costume.  Their  silk  hats  and  gloves  lay 
quietly  on  their  knees.  They  sat  quietly,  meditatively, 
Avith  gentle,  grave  faces.  Luke  thought  of  Mr.  Hen- 
nessy  and  the  village  boys.  Here  was  the  practical 
result  of  habitual  training  in  reverence.  He  entered 
the  sacristy,  and,  after  some  delay,  received  permission 
to  say  Mass.  The  sacristy  door  was  opened  by  his 
acolyte,  and  a  gush  of  hot  air  blew  in  his  face.  He 
expected  to  see  a  few  worshippers,  here  and  there. 
He  stood  in  presence  of  a  vast  multitude.  Some 
were  kneeling,  but  most  were  erect  and  moving 
as  in  an  endless  eddy,  circling  around  some  common 
centre.  It  was  the  altar  rails.  They  who  moved 
towards  the  altar  rails  looked  up,  with  hands  clasped 
around  their  prayer  books  or  wreathed  in  their  beads. 
They  stared  before  them,  as  at  some  entrancing  object 
that  riveted  eye  and  soul  in  one  absorbing  glance. 
They  who  returned  bent  their  faces  reverently  over 
clasped  fingers.  They  had  received  all  that  they  had 
dreamed  of  and  expected.  And,  as  all  moved  backward 
and  forward  in  apparently  endless  circles,  Luke  heard 
the  only  sound  that  broke  the  reverent  stillness  :  Cor- 
pus Domini  nostri  Jesu  Christi  custodial  animam  tuam 
in  vitam  aeternam.  Amen.  With  the  greatest  difficulty, 
and  following  his  acolyte  closely,  he  at  length  reached 
a  side  altar  and  deposited  his  chalice.  In  an  instant 
there  was  a  rush  to  the  place.  Women  snatched  up 
their  children  as  they  knelt,  and  hurried  forward.  Young 
girls  quickly  took  their  places  around  the  balustrade. 
Young  men  knelt  stiffly  erect,  with  reverent  faces,  and 
in  an  attitude  of  mute  attention.  Old  men  threw  down 
their  handkerchiefs  and  bent  heavily  over  the  rails. 
Then  there  was  the  hush  of  mute  expectation  of  the 
mighty  mystery  wrought  at  the  altar,  and  the  graces 
that  were  to  pour  like  torrents  on  their  souls.  Luke 
trembled  all  over  at  the  unusual  surroundings  —  he 
thought  there  was  a  panic  in  the  church  ;  then  he 
trembled  under  the  very  dread  of  great  delight.  The 
moment  he  had  said  the   last   prayer,  the  crowd  rose 


DISILLUSION  505 

swiftly  and  hurried  away  to  another  altar  where  another 
Mass  was  being  said.  No  time  for  idle  curiosity  here. 
The  gold  must  be  stamped  as  minted.  Time  is  precious, 
for  the  heavens  are  opened  this  thrice  blessed  morning, 
and  the  mighty  treasury  of  the  Church  lies  here  with 
uncovered  lids,  revealing  all  its  wealth  of  grace,  and  all 
its  opulence  of  merits  ;  and  swiftly  the  souls  that  covet 
must  dip  their  hands  and  depart.  And  so,  unfevered, 
but  restless  as  the  fur-clad  gold-seeker  who  treads  his 
painful  way  over  snowy  mountains  that  his  eyes  may 
rest  on  the  valley  of  riches  and  the  rivers  that  are  thick 
with  the  yellow  dust,  do  these  speculators  in  the  banks 
of  God  claim  vast  returns  from  His  thrice  generous 
hands  of  the  only  wealth  they  care  for  or  covet.  And 
here  was  neither  bankrupt  nor  suicide.  They  might 
dip  as  deeply  as  they  pleased  without  peril  or  the  dan- 
ger of  exhaustion.  For  are  not  His  mercies  without 
limit  ?  And  who  shall  plumb  the  vast  seas  of  omnipo- 
tent generosity  ? 

"  Yesterday  I  stood  in  the  ]\Iart  of  Mammon,"  said 
Luke.  "To-day  I  have  seen  the  Mart  of  Christ.  Is  this 
quite  unicjue?  or  are  there  other  Exchanges  in  the  city?" 

He  tried.  He  entered  another  church  in  a  deep  nar- 
row lane  off  Grafton  Street  —  a  great  vast,  gh)omy 
church,  with  all  kinds  of  niches  and  nooks,  wliere  a 
modest  soul  might  commune  freely  with  God.  and 
never  be  seen  of  men.  He  would  have  been  even  more 
interested,  had  he  known  that  this  was  the  church 
where  Barbara  worshippe<l  in  tlic  far-off  days.  And 
tliis  was  the  porch  through  which  Mrs.  Wenham  (led 
in  terror  ;  and  that  old  woman  miglit  be  Norry,  who 
was  always  rattling  her  beads.  Here  too  were  vast 
s[)eculators  on  the  treasury  of  Heaven.  To  and  fro, 
to  and  fro  they  moved,  pra3'ing,  weeping,  watching. 
All  but  one  !  A  3'oung  man,  also  well  dressed  in  fault- 
less morning  coat,  his  silk  hat  and  gloves  lying  on  the 
seat  near  him,  gazed  upwards,  as  he  leaned  heavil}'  on 
the  bench  rail,  at  the  Face  of  the  gentle  Christ.  He 
seemed  like  one  who  had   iust   awoki'   from  a  trance  of 


506  LUKE  DELMEGE 

horrid  dreams,  and  had  just  begun  to  realize  that  he 
still  lived,  and  that  there  were  great  solemn  realities 
about  him.  He  seemed  to  be  asking  still,  Is  it  all  true? 
or.  Is  it  all  still  a  dream?  But  the  gentle,  vivid  faith 
of  all  around  him,  tlie  quiet  realization  of  the  super= 
natural,  the  reverent  familiarity  with  which  these 
young  girls  placed  the  ruby  candle  in  the  sockets  of 
the  great  candelabra,  then  looked  up  into  the  Face  of 
Christ,  and  bowed,  as  if  the  eyes  were  wide  open  and 
watching  —  all  reassured  him;  and,  after  a  long  in- 
terval, he  sighed  deeply,  then  knelt,  and  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands,  and  prayed. 

"  God  send  another  Piiilip  Neri,"  said  Luke,  "  if  he 
is  not  already  here." 

He  should  see  the  Canon,  of  course.  He  drove  to 
the  ''  Mater,"  and  was  ushered  into  the  Canon's  private 
room.  He  apologized  at  once.  There  was  a  great 
mistake.  That  venerable  old  man,  his  long  hair  float- 
ing on  his  shoulders,  white  with  the  yellow  gleam  of 
an  Alp  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  long  white  beard  flow- 
ing in  two  forked  plaits  on  his  breast,  was  not  the 
Canon.     It  was  Elias  come  back  from  heaven. 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  said  Luke  ;  "  I  have  been  mis- 
directed." 

"  Ha,  my  dear  young  friend,  you  fail  —  ha  —  to  rec- 
ognize your  old  friend  ?  " 

"A  thousand  pardons,  sir,"  said  Luke.  "I  really 
did.  I  took  you  for  one  of  the  greater  prophets,  come 
back  to  life." 

"  Ha,  indeed  ?  And  is  my  —  ha  —  personal  appear- 
ance so  greatly  changed  ?  I  have  scarcely  thought  of 
it  here.  There  were  other  things  —  other  things  !  "  said 
the  Canon,  wearily  drawing  his  hand  across  his  brow. 

"I've  just  returned  from  England,"  said  Luke, 
"where  I  had  a  brief  holiday  — " 

"•  Ha  —  have  you  any  tidings  of  my  niece  —  of  Bar- 
bara ?  " 

"  I  regret  to  say,  no,  sir,"  said  Luke,  sadly.  "  I 
questioned  Father  Sheldon,  who  had  been  so  kind  to 


DISILLUSION  507 

Miss  Wilson  and  her  brother  in  EngLand;  but  he 
never  heard  from  or  saw  Miss  Wilson  since  the  inter- 
ment of  her  brother." 

"  It  is  strange,  and  mysterious,"  said  the  Canon.  "  I 
fear  we  must  give  her  up  as  dead." 

Luke  was  silent  for  a  long  time. 

"  I  must  congratulate  you,  sir,"  he  said  at  length, 
"on  your  rapid  recovery.  I  hardly  expected  to  find 
you  so  well." 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  feel  remarkably  well,"  said  the 
Canon,  raising  with  some  difficulty  the  arm  that  had 
been  paralyzed.  "  Thanks  to  careful  nursing,  and  the 
—  ha  —  skill  of  the  medical  practitioners  here,  I  hope 
soon  to  be  able  to  return  home." 

"You  may  expect  a  warm,  and  even  an  enthusiastic 
welcome,"  said  Luke.  "  It  will  revive  the  spirits  of 
the  poor  people  to  see  you  ;  and  they  need  some  com- 
fort now." 

"  Oh  !  it  will  be  all  right !  it  will  be  all  right  !  "  said 
the  Canon,  with  his  old  confidence.  "  In  the  face  of 
public  opinion,  our  —  ha — adversaries  cannot  proceed 
further.  The  P^nglish  press  has  taken  the  —  lia  — 
matter  up ;  and  English  public  opinion  cannot  be 
despised." 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  Luke,  despondently.  "Somehow, 
things  over  there  look  so  different  to  me  under  the 
light  of  experience.  I  have  begun  to  feel  a  strange, 
passionate  attachment  to  my  country  and  people." 

"  There's  a  good  deal  to  be  said  on  both  sides,"  said 
the  Canon. 

"  I  shall  warn  the  people  to  look  out  for  your  coming, 
sir,"  said  Luke,  rising.  "  You  may  be  prepared  for  a 
great  ovation." 

"I  think  you  may  —  ha — say,  that  I  shall  be  home 
in  a  month  or  six  weeks,"  replied  tlie  Canon. 

He  stood  up  to  say  good-b}^,  but  he  fell  back 
wearilj'. 

l.iike's  last  visit  was  to  his  beloved  sanctuary  —  the 
University    College    Chapel.       This   time   he   did   not 


( 


508  LUKE  DELMEGE 

reach  the  altar  rails  or  the  side  chapel.  He  was 
arrested  by  the  noble  bust  of  Newman  that  had  been 
just  erected  in  the  side  wall.  He  went  over  and  sat 
beneath  it,  looking  up  into  the  fine  face,  with  the 
expression  of  sadness  and  resignation  that  was  so  char- 
acteristic of  the  great  Cardinal  in  later  life.  And,  as 
Luke  watched  the  white  marble,  there  came  into  his 
mind  that  tragic  exclamation  when  the  letter  of  his 
elevation  to  the  Sacred  College  was  placed  in  the 
tremljling  hands  of  the  great  convert:  '-'•Thank  Grod ! 
the  cloud  is  lifted  at  last ! "     The  most  mournful  and  _ 

pitiful  of  all  the  dim  echoes  of  Eldi^  Elo'i,  lamma  sabac-  ff 

thani!  that  have  been  torn  from  bleeding  breasts  since 
that  cry  startled  the  darkness  of  Calvary.  And  Luke 
began  to  question  and  inquire. 

"  Why  should  a  cloud  ever  have  rested  on  that  sacred 
brow  ?  Why  are  the  great  and  the  holy  dishonoured  in 
life  ;  only  honoured  in  death  ?  Why  are  men  so  cruel 
and  vindictive  towards  each  other  ?  What  is  the  dread 
secret  of  man's  inhumanity  to  man  ?  " 

Poor  Luke!  he  can  never  leave  these  turbulent  ques- 
tions alone.  Why,  and  why,  and  why?  As  if  there 
were  any  key  to  tlie  mighty  riddle,  except  that  which 
is  hidden  away  somewhere  in  the  folds  of  God's  gar- 
ments, and  which  He  never  shows  until  after  He  has 
unlocked  the  secrets  of  the  grave. 


I 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII 
LOGWOOD  DAY 

Sister  Mary  of  Magdala  —  let  us  give  her  the  full 
title,  for  she  will  not  bear  it  much  longer  —  had  now 
spent  ten  years  of  penitence,  subjection,  mortification ; 
but,  oh  !  ten  years  of  such  supreme  hai)piness  within 
the  sanctuary  of  the  Good  Shepherd  ;  and,  as  the  unde- 
termined period  of  the  fultilment  of  lier  mighty  vow 
was  approaching  its  end,  her  cross  became  more  heavy, 
her  anxiety  more  acute.  True,  she  was  surrounded, 
encompassed,  followed  by  reverence  and  love,  such  as 
even  a  great  saint  might  envy,  could  he  feel  such  an 
unworthy  emotion,  lier  sister  penitents  adored  her, 
thoug^h  she  never  understood  the  reason  ;  the  nuns 
loved  her  ;  Father  Tracey  was  infinitely  kind  ;  Sister 
Eulalie  treated  her  as  one  of  the  community ;  and 
Laura,  her  little  patient,  followed  her  with  eyes  of 
speechless  devotion  and  affection.  But  that  dream  ! 
that  dream  ! 

It  had  now  become  a  Avaking  dream,  and  was  espe- 
cially insistent  in  the  Convent  Chapel.  For  when 
Sister  Mary  sat  down  there  in  the  little  sanctuary  to 
the  left,  where  her  sister  penitents  were  gathered 
together  at  j\Iass  or  Benediction,  slie  would  feel  her- 
self carried  out  in  s[)irit  into  tiie  choir-stalls,  where  the 
sixty  white-robed  Sisters  were  singing  Vespers  or  mutely 
liearing  ^lass.  And,  sometimes,  when  the  mighty  organ 
rumbled,  and  the  great  seraphic  voices  arose  in  some 
glorious  Tanfum  erijo  or  0  SaJntarU !  she  distinctly 
heard  her  own  voice  carried  out  and  al)ove  all  the 
others  as  it  struck  the  gilded  ceiling  and  the  decorated 

609 


510  LUKE  DELMEGE 

walls,  and  then  fell  down  in  a  whispered  echo,  and  hov- 
ered around  the  monstrance,  where  the  Divine  Lover  of 
her  and  of  all  was  hidden.  Then  with  a  violent  start 
she  would  wake  up  and  look  around,  and  behold  with 
a  little  shudder  her  own  dread  abjection.  And  then 
again  she  would  rebuke  herself  sternly  amidst  her  tears 
for  her  involuntary  treason  to  her  mighty  vow.  Had 
not  the  Eternal  kept  His  contract,  and  whj^  should  she 
repudiate  hers?  Had  not  the  All-Merciful  snatched 
her  brother  from  the  pains  of  hell  and  the  deep  pit,  and 
why  should  she  repine  for  a  few  years  of  such  sweet 
penance  ?  If  God  had  sent  Louis  —  poor  dear  Louis  — 
to  hell  —  oh  !  the  thought  was  too  dreadful ;  and  she 
would  go  out  on  the  wings  of  resignation  and  clasp, 
like  her  great  patroness,  the  nail-pierced  feet,  and  cry, 
'•'-Elegi!  elegi!  I  have  chosen  to  be  a  despised  one  in 
the  house  of  my  God  rather  than  dwell  in  the  tents  of 
sinners  !  "  And  then  there  would  be  peace.  But  the 
waking  dream  of  the  white,  spotless  robes  and  the  veil 
of  honoured  espousals  and  the  organ  and  the  choir,  and 
herself  amidst  it  all,  would  recur  again  and  again  ;  and 
the  very  respect  and  love,  of  which  she  now  found  her- 
self an  object,  only  intensified  the  vision. 

One  such  day  Sister  Mary  was  in  the  Infirmary,  tend- 
ing on  Laura  Desmond,  now  a  hopeless  and  helpless  in- 
valid. She  had  done  some  trifling  little  service  to  her 
patient,  and  the  latter  drew  her  down  with  her  arm  and 
whispered  :  — 

"  Won't  you  ever  tell  me  who  you  are  ?  " 

"  What  difference,  dear,  does  it  make,  so  long  as  we 
love  one  another  ?" 

"  No  ;  but  I  should  love  you  more,  only  that  some- 
times I  am  afraid  of  you." 

"  Why  should  you  be  afraid,  dear  ?  I  am  but  one 
like  yourself,  only  perhaps  more  sinful  before  God." 

"  You  are  not,"  said  the  patient,  quietly. 

Then  taking  up  her  prayer  book,  she  opened  it.  Sister 
Mary  helping,  and  took  out  a  little  picture. 

"  Do  you  know  what  it  is  ?  "  said  Laura. 


LOGWOOD   DAY  511 

"Yes,  dear  —  a  Sister  of  the  Good  Shepherd." 
"  I  shall  not  die  easy  till  I  see  you  in  that  dress,"  said 
Laura  ;  "  that  is,  if  you  do  not  put  on  something  even 
better." 

Sister  Mary  shook  her  head,  and,  after  a  little  while, 
when  Laura  slept,  she  went  over  to  the  farthest  southern 
window  and  took  up  her  book  to  read.  The  Holy  Moun- 
tain now  seemed  very  near.  She  did  not  know  that  she 
had  to  pass  through  the  deepest  and  darkest  valley  of 
humiliation  before  she  reached  the  shining  summit. 

On  this  same  day  Luke  Delmege  was  in  the  city,  in 
obedience  to  a  peremptory  summons  from  the  Bisliop. 
Before  he  left  Dublin  for  home,  he  satisfied  a  lonir-felt 
desire  to  see  his  Alma  Mater  once  more.  He  went 
down  to  Maynooth  b}'  an  early  train,  hoping  to  be  able 
to  pass  through  some  of  its  best-remembered  spots,  the 
Chapel,  his  own  old  room,  the  circular  walk,  etc.,  un- 
noticed. When  he  entered  the  great  gate,  beneath  the 
old  Geraldine  Keep,  it  struck  him  for  the  first  time  that 
sphinxes  were  placed  to  guard  the  portals  of  the  greatest 
Catholic  college  in  the  world. 

"  Strange  that  I  never  noticed  such  an  anomalous,  or, 
perhaps,  significant  circumstance,  during  all  my  college 
years  !  "  he  said. 

All  around  was  still  as  death.  For,  if  academic  peace 
is  to  be  found  on  earth,  it  is  within  the  hallowed  pre- 
cincts of  Maynootli. 

"  Tliey  have  all  gone  to  breakfast,"  he  cried,  looking 
at  his  watch.  ''  I  shall  have  the  Senior  Chapel  all  to 
myself.  I  shall  see  the  place  where  I  lay  prostrate  the 
morning  of  my  ordination.  I  shall  recall  my  vows,  my 
emotions,  my  resolutions.  I  have  seen  so  much  hitely 
to  cast  me  into  the  past  again,  and  to  compel  me  to 
retrace  my  steps,  that  is,  my  ideas  and  principles,  back 
to  the  fresh  insi)irations  of  the  most  hallowed  and 
peaceful  days  of  my  life." 

He  entered  the  narrow  porch  at  the  northern  side, 
touched  his  forehead  with  holy  water,  and  again,  for 


512  LUKE  DELMEGE 

the  third  time  these  last  few  days,  felt  a  breath  of  hot  air 
fanning  him,  and  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  a  great 
multitude.  He  had  forgotten  that  it  was  Whitsuntide. 
The  church  was  full  ;  the  very  drama  of  his  own  ordi- 
nation, that  most  sublime  of  the  Church's  ceremonies, 
was  being  reenacted  before  his  eyes.  Quietly  and  un- 
observed he  stole  up  the  short  aisle,  the  students  cour- 
teously yielding  place,  and  saw  the  broad  floor  of  the 
choir  between  the  stalls  carpeted  with  prostrate  human 
forms,  over  which  the  white  and  red  and  gold  of  the 
chasubles  gleamed.  There  was  an  awful  stillness  as  the 
Pontiff  stretched  his  hands  over  the  prostrate  Levites. 
Then  there  burst  on  the  stupefied  senses  of  Luke  that 
glorious  hymn,  the  Veni  Creator  Spiritus,  that  mighty 
epithalamlum  of  the  priesthood,  which,  in  some  peculiar 
sense,  too,  seems  to  be  the  royal  anthem  of  this  college  ; 
for,  heard  for  the  first  time  by  the  young,  raw  student, 
as  it  is  rendered  by  six  hundred  voices  at  the  opening 
of  Retreat,  it  haunts  him  all  through  his  college  course ; 
and,  heard  for  the  last  time  at  his  ordination,  it  accom- 
panies him,  tlie  rhythm  of  supreme,  melodious  sanctity, 
during  all  his  priestly  life.  And  Luke,  enchanted,  in- 
toxicated by  all  the  sweet  associations  of  the  past  and 
all  the  tender  environments  of  the  present,  could  only 
watch  and  study  the  air  of  rapt  recollection  and  happi- 
ness that  suffused  the  faces  of  the  young  priests  with 
the  oil  of  gladness,  and  compelled  him  to  pray,  deep 
down  in  his  heart,  not  for  himself,  but  for  them,  that 
the  Holy  Spirit  might  keep  fresh  forever  in  their  hearts 
all  the  sacred  inspirations  of  that  day,  and  never  allow 
them  to  be  uprooted  by  the  false  maxims  of  the  world, 
or  withered  and  faded  under  the  deadly  breath  of  custom 
or  compromise. 

He  slipped  out  quietly  from  amongst  the  students, 
the  young  cadets  of  the  great  army  of  Christ ;  took  a 
rapid  run  around  the  ball-courts  and  the  great  circular 
walk  that  stretches  far  up  amongst  the  mighty  elms 
and  sweeps  around  by  the  Grand  Canal ;  lingered  for 
a  moment  by  the  little  cemetery,  where  slept  many  of 


LOGWOOD   DAY  513 

his  old  professors,  and,  entering  the  corridor  once  more, 
found  liiniself  at  once  on  the  scene  of  liis  old  triumphs 
—  the  Fourth  Year's  Divinity  Hall.  Ah,  yes!  there 
was  the  very  desk  at  which  he  sat ;  there  the  pulpit, 
beneath  which  he  pulled  his  soutane  over  his  knees  so 
often,  and  annihilated  his  antagonist  with  a  Sic  argu- 
mentaris,  doctissime  Dominel  He  sat  down,  and  bury- 
ing his  face  in  his  hands,  he  tried  to  recall  old  faces 
and  associations.  Alas  !  the  old  faces  had  faded  away 
in  the  far  mists  of  memory  ;  but  the  old  associations 
came  up,  looming  dark  and  threatening  from  the 
past,  to  U[)braid  him  with  his  treason. 

"My  reason  tells  me,"  he  cried,  "that  my  life  has 
been  flawless  and  immaculate..  My  conscience,  some 
higher  power,  declares  my  life  to  have  been  a  failure. 
Where,  and  in  wliat  measure?  " 

And  the  ghosts  of  the  past  said  :  — 

"  In  this,  that  you  have  mistaken,  as  you  have  been 
already  told,  the  blue  and  green  fireworks  of  the  world 
for  tiie  calm,  eternal  stars.  You  have  groped  for  light, 
and  beheld  darkness ;  Ijrightness,  and  you  have  walked 
in  the  dark.  You  have  groped  for  the  wall,  and  like 
the  blind  you  have  groped,  as  if  you  had  no  eyes ;  you 
have  stumbled  at  noonday  as  in  darkness;  you  have 
been  in  dark  places,  like  dead  men." 

And  Luke  answered  and  said  :  — 

"Yes;   l)ut  wherefore,  and  how?" 

And  the  answer  came  :  — 

"  In  that  you  measured  your  college  and  your  country, 
ay,  even  your  Cliureh,  by  tlie  measure  of  a  false  civili- 
zation. You  judged  your  motherland,  as  all  \(nu'  fel- 
low-countrymen do  who  go  abroad,  by  the  false  standard 
of  modern  progress ;  you  found  her  wanting  and  despisiMl 
lier.  Now,  what  has  the  world  profited  you?  ^^he  lialli 
given  you  little  for  your  apostasy.  Ami  for  your  own 
people  you  have  been  a  crackling  of  thorns  under  a 
pot." 

Luke  was  glad  to  hear  the  noise  and  laughter  of 
the  students  in  the  corridor.     Anything  to  escape  that 


514  LUKE  DELMEGE 

reverie,  that  synod  of  accusing  ghosts.  He  opened  the 
door  and  rushed  out.  Groups  of  students  in  threes 
and  fours  were  wheeling  along,  file  after  file,  each  group 
clustered  around  a  newly  ordained  comrade,  who  trod 
on  air  and  spurned  the  sandy  flags.  Group  after  group 
stared  at  Luke  and  passed  by.  Then,  a  young  Levite 
detached  himself  from  his  batch,  and  coming  over  defer- 
entially, he  asked :  — 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir ;  but  are  you  Father  Luke 
Delmege?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Luke. 

"  Luke  Delmege,  that  was  First  of  First  f' 

"  Yes,"  said  Luke,  blushing  at  the  old  honour  and  at 
its  remembrance. 

"  The  diocese  was  speaking  of  you  only  yesterday 
and  recalling  all  your  triumphs,  and  one  of  us  from 
Limerick  thought  he  recognized  you.  Won't  you 
come  see  them  ?  " 

"  By  all  means,"  said  Luke.  And  he  did.  And 
they  made  him  the  centre  of  an  admiring  circle,  and 
told  him,  half  shyly,  half  familiarly,  how  well  he  was 
remembered  in  his  own  college ;  and  round  and  round 
they  swept,  linked  arm-in-arm,  until  a  professor,  rush- 
ing down  the  library  stairs  near  the  refectory,  caught 
sight  of  Luke's  face,  hesitated,  advanced.  The  stu- 
dents doffed  their  caps  and  retired  ;  and  the  professor, 
linking  his  ai'm  in  Luke's,  drew  him  on  to  the  supe- 
riors' corridor,  murmuring  all  the  way  :  — 

"  Luke  Delmege,  Luke  Delmege,  whom  we  gave  up  as 
lost !     Why?  why  ?  how  many  years  since  you  left  us?  " 

"  Seventeen,"  said  Luke,  very  happy. 

"  Seventeen  ?  "  murmured  the  professor,  unlinking  his 
arm  and  looking  at  Luke.  "  Seventeen  years  away  from 
us,  and  never  condescended  to  visit  us?  You  deserve 
to  be  turned  out,  neck  and  crop, from  your  Alma  Mater  !  " 

He  was  brought  into  the  refectory,  where  he  met  some 
old  comrades  and  some  of  his  old  professors.  He  was 
surprised  at  the  familiarity  with  which  these  latter  were 
treated;  surprised  that  they  accosted  him  familiarly; 


LOGWOOD   DAY  515 

surprised  that  they  ate  and  drank  like  mortals.  They 
were  the  Dli  Majores  of  his  youthful  worship  —  the  gods 
that  moved  in  a  different  and  loftier  sphere.  It  is  the 
awful  reverence  of  youth  for  its  superiors  —  an  instinct 
that  no  good  man  ever  wholly  lays  aside. 

Luke  was  overwhelmed  with  kindness.  He  said  he 
was  returning  home  to-morrow,  Wednesday. 

"  Nonsense  !  No  vacation  ever  terminated  on 
Wednesday.  He  was  expected  home  on  Saturday  at 
midnight  ;  and  there  in  Maynooth  he  should  remain 
until  the  last  train  started  !  " 

And  he  did  remain  ;  and  drew  up  the  entire  past 
witli  all  its  happy  reminiscences,  met  old  classmates 
and  talked  of  old  times;  challenged  disputations  here, 
where  at  last  he  felt  he  was  on  congenial  soil  and  would 
not  be  misunderstood  ;  recalled  old  debates  and  theses, 
and  formulated  any  number  of  new  plans  for  the  social 
and  intellectual  regeneration  of  Ireland. 

It  was  a  happy  man  that  passed  out  on  Saturday 
morning  between  the  sphinxes  on  the  gates. 

"  They  did  well  who  placed  ye  there,"  he  said.  "  Life 
is  a  mighty  riddle.  And  I  have  been  a  fool  in  trying 
to  solve  it — a  fool  in  more  ways  than  one;  but  most 
of  all  in  my  silly  imitation  of  that  old  dyspeptic  cynic 
who  ridiculed  the  controversy  about  6fxoiovaio<i  and 
6/xoovcno<;  all  his  life,  and  admitted  in  his  old  age  that 
on  that  one  letter  depended  the  whole  fabric  of  Chris- 
tianity." 

But  Luke  was  happy  and  strong.  He  needed  it. 
Greater  revelations  of  the  possibilities  of  sanctity  in 
the  Church,  and  greater  personal  trials  were  yet  before 
him. 

He  found  a  cold,  stern  letter  from  the  Bishop  await- 
ing him  when  he  returned  home  —  a  summons,  officially 
worded,  to  repair  at  once  to  the  city  and  present  him- 
self at  the  episcopal  palace.  Wondering  what  new 
accusation  was  laid  against  him,  and  searcliing  his  con- 
science in  vain  for  a  delinquency,  he  presented  himself 


^ 


516  LUKE  DELMEGE 

I 
before  his  Bishop.     The  Bishop  was  cold  and  stern  as  It 

his  letter.  4 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said.     Luke  sat,  wondering. 

"  Now,  Father  Delmege,"  said  the   Bishop,  "  I  have  | 

tolerated  a  good  deal    from  you,  but  my  patience  is  •" 

nearly    exhausted.     I    passed    by  that  imprudence    on  % 

your  first  mission,  because  you  acted  consistently  with 
the  statutes,  although  you  might  have  acted  more  pru- 
dently ;  I  also  contented  myself  with  a  gentle  repri- 
mand when  you,  I  dare  say  innocently,  introduced  a  ^ 
system  of  proselytism  into  your  parish.  I  have  also  | 
not  noticed  your  singular  habit  of  introducing  into 
your  sermons  rather  painful  contrasts  between  the 
customs  of  our  Irish  Church  and  those  which  obtain, 
under  happier  circumstances,  in  other  more  favoured 
countries.  Even  your  very  perilous  observations  at 
your  lecture  in  the  city  some  months  ago  I  left  unnoticed, 
because  I  knew  you  could  do  no  harm  there.  But  now 
I  hold  in  my  hand  a  melancholy  report  of  a  sermon 
delivered  by  you,  immediately  after  the  last  mission  in 
your  parish,  and  in  which,  if  I  am  rightly  informed, 
you  denied  the  sacramental  system  and  denounced  the 
use  of  the  ordinary  means  sanctioned  by  the  Church 
for  the  sanctification  of  the  faithful,  and  insisted  on  the 
individual  power  of  self-sanctification,  apart  from  the 
ordinary  channels  of  divine  grace  —  " 

"  Might  I  ask  the  name  of  my  accuser  ?  "  said  Luke, 
faintly. 

"  I  cannot  give  it,  unless  the  matter  proceeds  to  an 
official  investigation  and  trial.  Your  parish  priest 
writes  to  say  that  he  is  quite  sure  you  have  a  satisfac- 
tory defence  ;  but  then,  Dr.  Keatinge  is  always  inclined 
to  take  an  easy  and  optimistic  view  of  things." 

"  My  only  defence,  my  Lord,"  said  Luke,  "  is  to  deny 
the  allegation  infoto.  I  see  clearly  what  originated  the 
report.  A  poor  fellow,  intoxicated,  came  to  the  closing 
ceremony  of  the  mission.  I  took  him  from  the  church 
and  bade  him  go  home,  for  that  he  could  derive  no 
benefit  from  the  renewal  of  vows  in  his  then  state.     I 


LOGWOOD   DAY  '  517 

made  the  incident  the  text  of  my  discourse  the  follow- 
ing Sunday.  I  warned  the  people  not  to  confound  the 
means  of  sanctification  with  the  end —  not  to  repose  in 
external  observances,  but  to  look  within  ;  and  to  use 
tlie  Sacraments  and  sacramentals  willi  a  view  to  their 
own  sanctification,  and  not  as  finalities  that  wouhl 
operate  miracles  without  co-operation  on  their  part  —  " 

"That  puts  a  rather  different  complexion  on  the 
matter,"  said  the  Bishop,  softening.  "■  I  should  ])e 
surpi'ised  that  one  who  ol^tained  such  distinctions  in 
his  college  course  should  fall  into  sucli  a  lamentable 
blunder.     Have  you  any  further  observations  to  make  ?  " 

"None,  my  Lord,"  said  Luke,  in  despair.  "  M}" 
college  distinctions  have  availed  me  but  little.  I  am 
a  weary  and  perplexed  man." 

He  bent  down  his  head  on  his  hands  in  an  attitude  of 
hopelessness.  The  little  gesture  touched  the  Bishop. 
He  gazed  down  for  a  long  time  at  the  stooped  figure 
and  the  head  where  the  snows  of  life's  winter  were  now 
fast  gathering.     Then  he  gently  touched  Luke. 

"  You'll  spend  the  day  here,  and  dine  with  me  at  S.ve 
o'clock.  No  !  no  !  "  he  continued,  as  Luke  strove  to 
excuse  himself,  "  I  shall  take  no  excuse.  I  want  to  see 
you  more  closely." 

"  I  have  been  nearly  a  month  from  home,  my  Lord," 
said  Luke,  anxious  to  get  away,  "  and  —  " 

"  Now,  now,  I  make  it  a  matter  of  obedience,"  said 
the  Bisliop.  "  You  won't  find  me  so  crusty  and  disa- 
greeable as  you  think.  You"!!  have  a  few  hours  in  the 
city ;  but  be  here  })unctually  at  five.  By  the  way,  I 
want  you  to  take  a  letter  from  me  to  Father  Tracey. 
Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

"I  regret  to  say  I  do  not,"  said  Luke.  "Years  ago, 
Avhen  I  was  wiser  than  I  am  now,  I  had  determined  to 
make  his  acipiaintance,  but  unfoitunately  I  missed  the 
opportunitv.  I  shall  be  very  ghul  to  get  the  cliance 
now." 

"You  sliall  have  it,"  said  the  Iiisliop.  '•  I  wisli  I 
could  break  through  his  humility,  and  hold   him  up  as 


518  LUKE  DELMEGE 

a  model  to  the  diocese.  But  his  example  is  telling  in 
a  quiet  way." 

Luke  took  the  letter,  and  made  his  way  to  the  hospi- 
tal where  Father  Tracey  served.  He  found  he  did  not 
reside  there,  but  in  a  side  street.  He  passed  down 
through  a  shabby  lane,  eagerly  scanning  the  houses  to 
detect  some  indication  of  a  decent  residence.  He  nar- 
rowly escaped  a  deluge  of  purple,  dirty  water,  which  an 
old  woman  was  flinging  from  a  doorway,  right  across 
the  footpath,  into  a  dirty  channel  close  by. 

"  I  beg  your  reverence's  pardon  a  thousand  times," 
she  said.     "I  hope  a  drop  didn't  tetch  your  reverence." 

She  examined  with  some  anxiety  Luke's  fine  broad- 
cloth. 

"  Not  a  drop,  my  poor  woman,"  he  said.  "  But  it 
was  a  close  shave.  Can  you  tell  me  where  Father 
Tracey  lives  ?  " 

"  Here,  yer  reverence,"  she  said,  piloting  Luke  into 
the  kitchen.  "  But  Fm  afraid  he'll  hardly  see  you  to- 
day.    This  is  Logwood  Day." 

"  What  is  Logwood  Day  ?  "  asked  Luke,  with  curi- 
osity. 

"  VVance  in  the  six  months,"  she  replied,  "  we  have 
to  steep  his  ould  clothes  in  logwood  to  make  thim  some- 
way dacent.  That's  the  first  bile  I  threw  out.  We're 
now  giving  'em  the  second."  She  pointed  to  the  huge 
pot  ;  and  Luke,  bending  over,  saw  a  grimy  black  mass 
swimming  in  some  dark  red  liquid. 

"  And  has  he  but  one  coat  !  "  he  asked. 

"  Only  wan,  yer  reverence.  He  won't  dress  himself 
dacently  like  iverybody  else.  '  Fm  more  comfortable,' 
he  says,  'in  me  ould  duds.'  And  faith,  Fve  enough  to 
do  to  keep  him  from  givin'  away  thim  same  to  every 
poor  man  that  calls.  That  is,"  slie  added,  "  if  they'd 
take  'em." 

"  Well,  take  him  up  this  letter  from  the  Bishop," 
said  Luke,  "  and  say  a  priest  would  like  to  see  him." 

After  a  long  interval  she  reappeared  at  the  top  of 
the  stairs   and  called  down  :   "  Ye  may  come  up,  yer 


LOGWOOD   DAY  519 

reverence  ;    but   mind  tliim   stej^s,  and  don't  lane  too 
heavy  agen  tlie  banister." 

The  ante-room  into  which  Luke  was  ushered  was 
miserable  enough.  It  served  as  a  bed-room  ;  and, 
though  clean,  it  was  denuded  of  every  stick  of  furni- 
ture, except  the  wooden  chair,  the  wash-stand,  and  the 
simple  pallet  where  the  old  man  sought  his  often-broken 
repose.  He  passed  into  the  inner  rf)om.  The  old  man, 
dressed  in  a  green  soutane,  stood  up,  and,  without  ask- 
ing his  name,  greeted  liim  warmly,  and  asked  him  to  be 
seated,  while  he  broke  the  seal  on  tlie  Bishop's  letter. 
The  contents  must  have  been  pleasant,  for  the  old  man 
smiled. 

'•  I  liave  for  a  long  time  cherished  the  idea,"  said 
Luke,  "  that  I  should  wish  to  make  your  acquaintance. 
]\Iy  sister  at  the  Good  Shepherd  Convent  has  again  and 
again  asked  me  to  call,  but  one  circumstance  after 
another  prevented  me." 

""  Then  you  have  a  sister  at  the  convent  ?  "  said  tlie 
old  man,  nervously,  fussing  about  and  showing  not  a 
little  trepidation. 

"  Yes,  Fatlier —  Sister  Eulalie  — you  know  her?  " 

"God  bless  me,  you  don't  say  so,"  said  tlie  old  man. 
rising  up  and  greeting  Luke  again  warmly.  ".\nd 
vou  are  Luke  Delmege,  the  great  theologian  and 
lecturer  !  " 

"'  Mv  name  is  Luke  Delmege."  he  said  meeklv. 

"  AVell,  I  heard  of  you  long  before  I  saw  you,"  said 
the  old  man.  "  God  bless  me  I  And  you  are  Luke 
Delmege  ?  " 

••'I  have  had  a  rather  bitter  trial  to-day,"  said  Luke. 
"  1  was  summoned  before  the  Bishop  to  repel  a  most 
calumnious  accusation." 

"God  bless  me,  now  !     And  what  did  you  say?" 

"Of  course  I  defended  myself,"  said  Luke,  "and  I 
think  I  satisfied  the  IVishoj)  that  I  had  said  or  done 
nothing  wronir.     But  the  stinir  remains." 

The  old  man  remained  silent,  looking  steadily  at 
Luke.     The  latter  grew  embarrassed  now. 


520  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  You  seem  to  think  I  have  been  wrong,"  he  broke 
out  at  Last.  "  What  can  a  man  do  but  defend  him- 
self?" 

"  God  bless  me  !  quite  true,  quite  true  !  But  he 
could  say  nothing,  you  know,  my  dear." 

"And  remain  silent  and  condemned  under  a  fright- 
ful accusation  ?  No  theologian  binds  a  man  to  that," 
said  Luke. 

"Of  course  not,  of  course  not,"  said  Father  Tracey. 
"  But  I  think,  well  —  I'm  not  sure  —  but  I  think  our 
Lord  was  silent  before  His  accusers,  my  dear.  And  He 
was  justified  by  His  Father  !  " 

"That's  very  true.  Father,"  said  Luke,  twisting  around 
on  the  hard  chair  ;  "  but  these  things  are  written  for 
our  admiration,  not  for  our  imitation.  At  least,"  he 
continued,  noticing  the  look  of  pain  on  the  aged  face, 
"  I  heard  a  distinguished  man  say  so  very  many  years 
ago." 

And  then  the  old  man  opened  up  to  Luke's  wondering 
eyes,  out  of  the  treasures  of  his  own  holy  experiences, 
the  riches  of  knowledge  that  come  not  to  the  learned, 
but  to  the  simple  —  the  wisdom  of  the  child  and  the 
angel,  of  Bethlehem  and  Calvary.  And  just  as  a  clever 
artist  shifts  his  scenery  so  that  light  falls  behind  light, 
and  scenes  blend  into  scenes,  yet  are  absolutely  distinct, 
so  did  this  old  man  show  to  the  wondering  Luke  how  the 
mighty  empire  of  the  Precious  Blood  permeates  and 
leavens  the  entire  world,  and  holds  undisjjuted  posses- 
sion only  where  its  laws  and  maxims  are  fully  acknow- 
ledged. And  that  elsewhere,  wliere  that  most  agreeable 
and  fascinating  amusement  of  men — the  neat  mortising 
and  fitting  in  of  the  world's  maxims  with  the  Church's 
precepts  —  is  practised,  there  the  shadows  are  deeper 
and  the  lines  that  bound  the  empire  fainter.  And 
Luke  also  learned  that  the  one  central  decree  of  the 
empire  is  :  Lose  thyself  to  find  all ;  and  that  the  old 
familiar  watchword  of  self-renunciation  and  vicarious 
suffering  was  in  reality  the  peculiar  and  exclusive  pos- 
session of  Christianity  and  the  Church.     And  he  looked 


i 

i 


LOGWOOD   DAY  521 

back  over  his  own  life  and  saw  that  his  soul  was  naked 
and  ashamed.     Then  he  flung  aside  the  riddle. 

"  Let  nie  see  but  one  or  two  examples,  and  it  is  enough 
forever,"  he  said. 

There  was  one  before  him.  The  other,  even  more 
noble,  more  divine,  he  was  about  to  see. 

He  bade  the  old  man  an  affectionate  farewell,  and  bent 
his  steps  towards  the  Good  Shepherd  Convent  to  see  his 
sister.  The  lay-sister  who  answered  the  door  told  him 
that  his  sister  would  be  engaged  for  some  time  in  the 
Orphanage  ;  but  that,  if  he  would  kindly  wait  till 
Vespers  were  linished,  he  could  see  Reverend  Mother. 
On  second  thoughts,  she  invited  him  into  the  outer 
sacristy,  where  he  could  assist  at  Vespers.  He  saw  for 
the  first  time  the  beautiful  choir  ;  he  saw  the  sixty  pro- 
fessed Sisters,  the  white  veils,  the  postulants  standing 
in  the  choir-stalls  ;  he  heard  the  Magnificat  chanted  by 
these  young  daughters  of  Jerusalem  ;  the  poetry,  the 
beauty,  sank  into  his  soul. 

"•Ah!"  he  said,  "if  this  were  all  religion,  what  a 
poem  Christianity  would  be  !  " 

He  quite  forgot  the  pause  that  is  essential  to  melody 
—  the  chords  in  the  minor  keys  that  are  the  essentials 
of  all  harmony. 

The  choir  broke  up,  and  the  Sisters  passed  swiftly  to 
their  duties.  He  heard  a  rustling  behind  him,  and  a 
voice  :  — 

"  Sister  Eulalie  will  be  engaged  for  about  half  an  hour. 
Father.  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  the  institution 
in  the  interval?" 

"  I  shall  be  very  pleased,"  said  Luke. 

She  led  him  into  the  corridor,  full  of  flowers  and 
fragrance;  thence  by  a  rapid  transition  into  the  first 
workroom.  He  was  face  to  face  with  the  Magdalcns. 
The  shudder  that  touches  every  pure  and  fastidious  soul 
at  the  very  name  crept  over  him  as  he  saw  the  realities. 
The  awful  dread  that  the  siglit  of  soiled  womanliood  cre- 
ates in  the  Catholic  mind,  so  used  to  that  sweet  syml)ol  of 
all  womanly  perfection  —  our  Blessed  Lady  —  made  him 


522  LUKE  DELMEGE 

tremble.  It  was  only  for  a  moment.  There  was  noth- 
ing repulsive  or  alarming  here.  Seven  or  eight  long 
tables,  running  parallel  to  each  other,  filled  the  room ; 
and  at  each  table,  eight  or  ten  women,  ranging  from  the 
young  girl  of  fifteen  to  the  woman  of  sixty,  were  silently 
occupied  in  laundry  work.  All  modern  appliances  to 
save  human  labour  were  there.  The  workers  were 
neatly  dressed,  and  happy,  if  one  could  judge  by  their 
smiles.  No  human  imagination,  however  powerful, 
could  associate  these  eager  workers  with  the  midnight 
streets,  the  padded  cell,  tlie  dock,  the  jail,  or  the  river. 
It  was  a  happy  sisterhood,  working  in  perfect  silence 
and  discipline.  And  over  all  there  presided  a  young 
novice,  in  her  white  veil,  who  stood  calmly  working, 
like  her  poor  sisters,  taking  up  now  a  white  cuff,  now 
a  collar,  and  giving  her  gentle  instructions. 

"  It  is  the  old  mechanism  and  perfection  I  once 
desired,"  thought  Luke  ;  "  but  the  motive  power  is 
love,  not  fear." 

They  passed  into  an  inner  room.  Here  was  miracle 
number  two.  The  Cistercian  silence  no  longer  reigned; 
but  over  the  boom  and  buzz  of  vast  machinery  came  a 
Babel  of  voices  as  the  workers  fled  to  and  fro. 

"  Yer  blessin',  Feyther,"  cried  one  ;  and  in  a  moment 
all  were  on  their  knees  for  Luke's  benediction.  And 
then,  with  easy  familiarity,  these  poor  girls  took  Luke 
around,  and  showed  with  intense  pride  the  mighty 
secrets  of  the  machinery  ;  how  steam  was  let  on  and 
shut  off  ;  how  the  slides  worked  on  the  rails  in  the 
drying-room,  etc.  And,  moving  hither  and  thither 
amongst  them,  in  an  attitude  of  absolute  equality,  were 
the  wliite-robed  Sisters,  their  spotless  habits  carefully 
tucked,  for  the  floor  was  wet,  and  they  laboured  and 
toiled  like  the  rest. 

"  'Tis  the  commonwealth  of  Jesus  Christ,"  said  Luke. 

And  dear  old  Sister  Peter  came  forward,  an  octoge- 
narian, and  showed  him  all  her  treasures  and  her  pretty 
little  oratory,  with  all  its  dainty  pictures. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here  ?  "  he  asked. 


LOGWOOD   DAY  523 

"  Fifty  years,  yer  reverence,  come  Michaelmas." 

"  Then  your  purgatory  is  over,"  said  Luke. 

"  I  don't  want  purgatliory,  nor  heaven  ayther,"  she 
said,  "as  long  as  (ilod  laves  me  with  the  Sisthers." 

The  Sister  and  Luke  passed  out  of  the  steamy  atmos- 
phere and  the  rumble  of  the  machinery  into  a  narrow 
corridor,  which  led  to  the  boiler-room  and  engine- 
house. 

"  I  should  like  you  to  see  our  new  boiler,"  she  said  ; 
"  ril  run  on  and  tell  the  engineer  to  have  all  ready. 
This  is  our  Infirmary.  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  see 
it.     There's  but  one  patient  here." 

She  opened  the  door,  and  pointed  to  the  bed  where 
Laura  was  lying.  He  went  over  at  once,  and,  leaning 
over  the  sick  girl,  said  a  few  kind  words.  Then  look- 
ing around,  he  saw  another  ligure  over  near  the  soutliern 
window,  her  face  bent  down  over  the  book  she  Avas  read- 
ing. He  thought  it  would  seem  unkind  to  pass  lier  by, 
so  he  went  over  and  said  cheerily  :  — 

"  Convalescent,  I  suppose  ?  " 

She  rose  up,  trembling  all  over.  Then  a  blush  of 
untold  horror  and  shame  flushed  her  face  and  forehead 
as  their  eyes  met  ;  but  only  to  give  place  to  a  pallor 
deejier  than  that  on  the  faces  of  the  dead.  He  started 
back  as  if  stung,  and  cried  :  — 

"Great  God  I   Barbara  !   ^liss  Wilson  !  " 

"  Hush  !  "  she  said  softly,  placing  her  trembling  finger 
on  her  lips.      "That  poor  eliild  is  watching." 

"  But  what  ?  wliat  ?  wliat  ?  "  ho  stammered.  ''  What 
in  (iod's  name  is  this  mystery  ?     AVhy  are  you  here  '!  " 

"  God's  will.  Father,"  she  said  simply. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  in  an  excited  manner  ;  "but  in 
what,  in  what  capacity?     Are  you  infirmarian  ?" 

"  No,"  she  said,  casting  down  her  eyes. 

"  And  how  long  have  you  been  here  ?  "  he  cried,  his 
eyes  wandering  vaguely  over  her  blue  penitent's  dress, 
and  searching  the  calm  depths  of  her  face. 

"  Ten  years,"  she  said,  in  a  low  tone.  "  Ever  since 
Louis  died." 


524  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  Ten  years  !  And  your  uncle  and  father  searching 
all  Europe  for  you  !  What  is  this  horrible  mystery  ? 
How  long  are  you  professed  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  a  professed  Sister,  Father,"  she  said 
bravely. 

"  Then  you  are  a  nursing  Sister  attached  to  the  city 
and  coming  in  here  —  " 

She  shook  her  head.  Her  heart  was  breaking  with 
shame  and  sorrow,  as  she  plunged  deeper  and  deeper  in 
the  valley  of  humiliation.  He  drew  back,  as  the  hor- 
rible thought  flashed  across  his  mind,  and  he  recalled 
the  dress  of  the  Magdalens.  She  saw  the  little  gesture 
and  flushed  again. 

"■  I  am  afraid  to  ask  further,"  he  said  coldly,  and  with 
reserve  ;  "  but  do  you  belong  to  the  community  ?  " 

"  No,  Father,"  she  said  bravely  —  it  was  the  "  Con- 
summatum  est"  of  her  agony  of  ten  years  —  "I  am  a 
penitent." 

She  was  looking  out  over  the  trees  and  shrubs,  look- 
ing with  eyes  dilated,  like  a  consumptive's,  her  temples 
still  flushed,  and  her  face  drawn  and  strained  in  agony. 
He,  too,  looked  steadily  through  the  window.  He 
scarcely  concealed  the  loathing  with  which  that  reluctant 
confession  filled  him  for  this  young  girl,  standing  there, 
apparently  so  calm.  The  shudder  that  he  felt  on  en- 
tering the  laundry  where  the  Magdalens  worked,  and 
which  gave  way  instantly  before  the  sublime  spectacle 
of  their  resurrection,  now  filled  him  with  tenfold  hor- 
ror. Here,  he  thought,  there  Avas  no  excuse.  Neither 
ignorance,  nor  poverty,  nor  heredity  to  palliate  the 
shame.  He  was  side  b}'  side,  not  with  a  sinful  woman, 
but  with  a  lost  angel.  The  transformation  was  perfect. 
He  thought  he  read  it  in  her  face.  There  was  —  there 
could  be  —  no  resurrection  here.  He  j)aused  for  a  mo- 
ment to  consider  what  he  would  do.  As  he  did  so, 
the  vision  that  he  had  once  seen  in  the  garden  of 
the  Schweizerhof  came  up  before  him,  the  vision  of  the 
wrecked  soul  and  its  guardian  angel.  The  thought  was 
too  terrible.     His  memory  of  that  one  night  tempted 


LOGWOOD   DAY  525 

him  to  stretch  out  his  hand  and  say  a  kind  farewell  to 
one  he  should  never  see  again.  But  one  side  glance  at 
tliat  ill-made,  coarse,  bulky  dress  of  penitence  deterred 
liim.  He  bowed  stiffly  and  said  "  Good-day  !  "  with  a 
frown.  Barbara  continued  staring  blindly  through  the 
window.  Then  slowly,  as  her  heart  broke  under  the 
agony,  her  hot  tears  fell,  burned  her  hand,  and  blistered 
the  book  which  she  held. 

As  Luke  passed  Laura's  bed,  she  beckoned  to  him. 

"  Would  yer  reverence  tell  me,"  she  said,  "  on  yer 
word  of  honour  as  a  priest,  do  ye  know  tliat  girl  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  sharpl}-  ;   "  I  know  something  of  her." 

"  Would  ye  tell  me,  yer  reverence,  once  and  for  all,  is 
she  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said  shortly  ;   "  she  is  not  !  " 

"  Than'  God  an'  you,"  the  poor  girl  cried.  "  I  struck 
her  wance  with  them  five  fingers.  I  saw  the  print  of 
'em  this  minit  on  her  face  whin  she  blushed.  Than' 
God,  I  now  die  aisy." 

The  Sister,  wlio  was  awaiting  him  in  the  corridor, 
was  surprised  at  the  change  in  his  manner  and  appear- 
ance. 

"  Can  I  see  the  Reverend  Mother,  Sister,"  he  said 
impatiently,  "and  at  once?" 

"•  By  all  means.  Father,"  she  replied  ;  "come  this  way 
to  tlie  parl(»ur." 

What  occurred  at  that  momentous  interview  we  are 
not  privileged  to  know.  But  Luke  Delmege  came  forth 
a  changed  and  a  shamed  man.  He  knew  tlien  tliat  all 
the  sublime  supernaturalism,  with  which  he  had  been 
brought  face  to  face  for  the  last  few  days,  had  touched 
the  summit  in  that  heart  which  he  liad  left  torn  ami 
bleeding  in  the  lulirmary.  He  had  seen  wliat  lu'  wanted 
to  see  —  the  supreme  examjile  of  self-al)aiul()nment  ; 
and  he  knew  then  that  heroic  sanctity,  as  taught  by  the 
Church  and  the  Saints,  was  no  myth. 

He  had  gone  far  down  towards  the  entrance  lodge 
before  he  thought  of  his  sister.  She  had  seen  him  pass 
lier  by,  but  was  afraid  to  accost  him.      She  felt  that  he 


526  LUKE  DELMEGE 

knew  all  ;  that  the  secret  of  the  King,  so  faithfully 
kept  for  ten  years,  was  no  longer  a  secret.  She  called 
out  "Luke,"  just  as  he  thought  of  her.  He  came  back, 
dazed  and  blinded.  She  had  a  hundred  things  to  say 
to  him  ;  but  now  her  lips  were  closed,  as  she  stood, 
niched  in  a  clump  of  laurels,  and  looked  at  his  wild 
eyes  and  his  drawn  face.  He  stood  before  his  little 
sister  for  a  moment,  and  the  thought  came  back  of  her 
warning  the  evening  he  dined  at  the  Canon's  ;  and 
Margery's  rash  judgments  then,  and  his  own  rash  judg- 
ments an  hour  ago,  clashed  together.  He  placed  his 
hands  on  his  dear  little  sister's  shoulders,  beneath  her 
black  veil.  He  would  have  given  all  the  world  to  kiss 
her.  But  he  felt  he  dared  not.  The  glamour  of  the 
unseen  world  was  round  about  him,  and  he  was  afraid. 
Margery  said  faintly  :  — 

"■  Oh  !  Luke  I  what's  the  matter  ?  What  has  hap- 
pened ?  " 

He  stooped  down,  and,  snatching  up  hastily  the  white 
ivory  cross  that  hung  from  her  rosary,  he  kissed  it  pas- 
sionately, and,  without  a  word,  strode  out  into  the  city. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX 
MARTYRDOM 

As  Luke  Delmege  returned  home  the  following  day, 
he  was  a  prey  to  anguish  and  remorse  such  as  rarel}'' 
visit  souls,  except  those  who  are  called  to  the  high 
planes  of  thought  and  trial.  The  sudden  contrast  be- 
tween his  own  life,  flawless  and  innnaculate,  but  com- 
monplace and  unheroic,  with  the  life  of  that  humble 
priest,  stripped  of  all  things  for  Christ's  sake  ;  and  llic 
sharper  contrast  with  the  sublime  heroism  of  this  3'oung 
girl,  tilled  him  with  that  poignant  self-contempt,  which 
line  s(juls  feel  when  they  contemplate  the  lives  of  the 
saints  of  God. 

"  I  have  been  troubled  with  problems,"  he  said. 
"Here  is  the  rjrcat  solution  —  Lose  all  to  find  all." 

Even  the  great  kindness  of  the  Lisliop,  which  augured 
great  things  for  his  future,  could  not  dissipate  the 
thought.     Nay,  it  intensified  it. 

"  I  have  been  in  touch  with  great  souls,"  he  said. 
"Now,  let  me  see,  can  1  be  worthy  of  them.  Can  I  see 
that  great  old  man  again  without  compunction  ;  and 
that  young  saint  without  shame?  Surely,  heroism  and 
heaven  are  for  me,  as  for  them  I  " 

He  commenced  at  once.  Bit  by  bit,  every  superflu- 
ous article  of  furniture  was  secretly  disposed  of,  until 
his  bedroom  became  as  bare  as  that  old  bedroom  on  his 
first  mission,  where  he  had  sat  and  meditated  in  de- 
s[);iir.  And,  excc])(  one  or  two  artiidcs.  souvenirs  of  old 
friends,  he  denutlcd  in  like  manner  his  little  parlour, 
saving  only  his  books.     Then  he  begged  for  a  cross. 

527 


528  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"Cut,  burn,  and  destroy."  He  placed  no  limit  to  God's 
judgment.  He  asked  for  the  unknown  ;  and  shut  his 
eyes.     And  the  cross  came. 

One  morning  he  had  a  letter  from  Father  Cussen  say- 
ing that  all  preliminaries  had  been  arranged,  notices  had 
been  served  on  the  Board  of  Guardians  ;  and  it  was 
almost  certain  that  the  evictions  in  Lough  and  Ardavine 
would  commence  during  the  ensuing  week.  Further- 
more, it  was  suspected  that  an  example  would  be  made 
of  the  leading  Nationalists  ;  and  that,  probably,  Lisna- 
lee  would  be  visited  first.  A  few  days  after,  a  second 
letter  told  him  that  the  evil  day  had  come.  A  com- 
pany of  soldiers  had  been  drafted  into  the  village,  and 
the  police  were  concentrating  in  a  neighbouring  town. 
He  made  up  his  mind  to  leave  that  day,  and  go  to  Sea- 
view  Cottage  to  await  events.  Whilst  he  was  read- 
ing these  letters,  he  noticed  that  Mary  was  lingering  in 
the  room,  under  one  pretext  or  another.  She  poked  the 
grate  assiduously,  arranged  and  rearranged  the  two  vases 
several  times,  until  at  last  Luke  said  :  — 

"  Well,  Mary,  what's  up  ?  " 

Mary,  trembling  very  much,  faltered  out :  — 

"  I  was  thin  kin'  to  be  afther  asking  your  reverence  to 
get  another  housekeeper." 

"  Oh,  you  are  anxious  to  leave  me  ?  I  thought  you 
were  fairly  happy  here,  Mary." 

"  And  so  I  was,  your  reverence,"  said  Mary,  biting 
the  lace  edging  of  her  apron,  and  studying  the  pictures 
carefully. 

"Then  why  are  you  leaving?  Do  you  want  higher 
wages  ?  " 

"  Ah,  'tisn't  that  at  all,  your  reverence,"  said  Mary, 
with  a  frown. 

"  Well,  surely  you're  not  going  to  America  with  the 
rest  ?  " 

"  Yerra,  no  !  your  reverence,"  said  Mary,  biting  her 
apron  more  furiously. 

"  Well,  I  mustn't  try  to  discover  your  secrets,"  said 
Luke.     "  You  have  your  own  ideas  —  " 


MARTYRDOM  529 

"  Yerra,  'tis  the  way  I'm  goiii'  to  be  married,"  blurted 
out  Mary. 

"  Married  ?  "  cried  Luke,  as^liast. 

"  Yes,  your  reverence  !  Wliy  not  a  poor  girl  get 
married  if  she  gets  the  chance  ?  "  said  Mary,  with  a 
pout. 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure,  to  be  sure,"  said  Luke.  "  But  I 
hope,  my  good  girl,  you  are  making  a  good  choice.  You 
deserve  a  good  husband." 

"  Indeed'n  he  is  a  dacent  boy  enough,"  said  Mary. 

"  He  doesn't  drink,  I  hope  ?  "  asked  Luke,  anxiously. 

''  Ah,  not  much,  your  reverence.  No  more  than 
anybody  else." 

"  Because  you  know,  Mary,"  said  Luke,  kindly,  ''  that 
the  worst  thing  a  young  girl  ever  did  is  to  marry  a 
drunkard  in  the  hope  of  reforming  him." 

''Ah,  he's  not  as  bad  as  that  at  all,  your  reverence," 
said  Mary. 

"  Do  I  know  him  ?  "  asked  Luke. 

"  Yerra,  you  do,  of  course,"  said  INIary,  blushing 
furiously, 

"  Does  he  belong  to  our  parish?  " 

"  Yerra,  of  course,  lie  does,  your  reverence,"  said 
Mary,  with  a  little  giggle. 

"•I  won't  ask  further  —  "  said  Luke,  turning  away. 

"  Yerra,  'tis  John,  your  reverence,"  said  Mary,  now 
scarlet  with  confusion. 

"  John  ?  Avliat  John  ?  "  said  Luke. 

"  Yerra,  your  John,  your  reverence,"  said  tlio  poor 
girl. 

''  What  !   tliat  ruHian  !  "  cried  Luke,  in  ilisniay. 

"Ah,  he's  not,"  said  Mary,  pouting.  "  lie's  a  dacent 
poor  boy  enough." 

"  \Vell,  marriages  are  made  in  liiMven,  I  sujipose," 
said  Luke,  resigiu'illy.  '•  Hut  I  thought  you  and  John 
were  always  quarrelling." 

"  Ah,  we  used  make  it  up  agin,"  said  Mary. 

"Of    course,    you   ])lease   yourstdf,   Mary,"    said    her 
master  at  length.     *•  But  it  would  be  very  embarrassing 
2m 


530  LUKE  DELMEGE 

and  awkward  for  me,  if  you  were  to  leave  just  now. 
I  expect  within  the  next  few  days  that  my  father  and 
sister  will  be  thrown  upon  the  world  ;  and  they  have  no 
shelter  but  here  !  " 

"  Don't  say  another  word,  your  reverence,"  said  Mary. 
"  If  it  was  for  seven  years,  John  must  wait." 

But  John  didn't  see  the  force  of  this  unnecessary  jDro- 
crastination.  And  there  was  another  big  row  in  the 
kitchen. 

"  An'  you  won't  ?  "  said  John,  as  an  ultimatum. 

"  I  won't,"  said  Mary,  determinedly. 

"  Well,  there's  as  good  fish  in  the  say  as  ever  was 
caught,"  said  John. 

"  Go,  an'  ketch  'em,"  said  Mary. 

But  John  relented  after  some  hours'  meditation. 

"  An'  'tisn't  for  your  sake,"  he  said,  "  but  for  the 
masther's.  It  would  be  a  quare  thing  if  we  wor  to  lave 
him  in  his  throuble." 

So  Luke  went  down  to  Seaview  Cottage  to  await 
events. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  The  following  morning, 
as  they  sat  at  breakfast  in  the  neat  little  parlour  front- 
ing the  sea,  there  came  to  their  ears  a  low  wailing 
sound,  that  apj)eared  to  be  caught  up  and  echoed  by 
similar  sounds  here  and  there  across  the  country. 

"  Some  steamer  going  up  the  river  !  "  said  Father 
Martin.  "  That's  the  foghorn,  and  the  echoes  along 
the  shore.  Run  out,  Tony,  and  tell  us  what  she's 
like." 

Tony  soon  returned. 

"  There's  no  steamer  in  the  channel,"  said  Tony  ; 
"but  the  people  are  all  running  here  and  there  up 
towards  Ardavine." 

"  'Tis  the  signal  of  the  eviction,"  said  Luke,  rising. 
"  Let  us  go  !  " 

"  Sit  down,  man,  and  eat  your  breakfast,"  said  Father 
Martin.     "  You  have  a  long  fast  before  you." 

But  Luke  did  not  sit  down  again.  The  home  of 
his  childhood  and  manhood,  the  dream  of  the  London 


MARTYRDOM  531 

streets,  the  vision  that  hovered  ever  before  his  eyes, 
even  in  his  moments  of  unfaithfulness,  was  about  to 
vanisli  in  liame,  and  smoke,  and  red  ruin.  How  could 
he  sit  down  calmly  and  eat  ?  He  gulped  down  a  cup 
of  tea,  and  waited  impatiently  for  Father  IMartin. 

They  drove  up  rapidly,  to  find  that  the  terrible  pro- 
ceedings had  already  commenced.  As  they  passed  with 
ditlficulty  through  the  vast,  surging  crowd,  that  swayed 
to  and  fro  with  excitement,  they  saw  the  red  dotted 
line  of  soldiers,  who  formed  the  cordon  around  the 
house  ;  and  within  the  cordon  was  the  black  square  of 
police,  who  were  to  guard  the  bailiffs  from  violence. 
The  soldiers,  standing  at  ease,  gazed  sullenly  into  the 
mouths  of  their  rifles,  never  liftinsr  their  heads.  It  was 
dirty,  unsoldierlike  work,  and  they  were  ashamed. 
Their  young  officer  turned  his  back  on  the  whole  dis- 
mal proceeding  ;  and  lighting  a  cigarette,  stared  out 
over  the  landscape.  The  priests  briefly  saluted  Father 
Cussen,  who  was  trying  by  main  strength  of  arm  to 
keep  back  the  infuriated  people.  He  had  barely  time 
to  whisper  to  Luke  :  — 

"  I  wish  we  had  all  your  coolness  to-day.  There  will 
be  bad  work  ;  and  well  want  it." 

He  struck  the  liand  of  a  peasant  lightly,  as  he  spoke, 
and  a  large  jagged  stone  dropped  on  the  ground. 

Luke  and  Father  Martin  l)egged  leave  of  the  Resident 
Magistrate  to  approach  the  house,  and  give  such  con- 
solation, as  they  might,  to  the  poor  inmates.  It  M'as 
retuscd  courteously.  No  one  could  pass  inside  the 
cordon.  They  stood  on  the  outskirts,  therefore,  and 
watched  the  eviction  —  Father  Martin,  anxious  and 
sympathetic  ;  Luke,  })ale  with  excitement,  his  eyes 
straining  from  their  sockets,  his  face  drawn  tight  as 
parchment.  Li  dramas  of  this  kind  —  alas  I  so  frequent 
in  h'cland  — the  evicted  as  a  rule  make  a  show  of  hos- 
tility and  opposition  to  the  law.  Sometimes,  the  bail- 
iffs are  furiously  attacked,  and  their  lives  imperilled. 
When  the  keen,  cruel  hand  of  the  mighty  monster  is 
laid  upon  them,  the  people  cannot  help  striking  back 


532  LUKE  DELMEGE 

in  terror  and  anger  —  it  is  so  omnipotent  and  remorse- 
less. But,  in  this  case,  the  beautiful  faith  and  resigna- 
tion to  God's  inscrutable  will,  which  had  characterized 
the  life  of  old  Mike  Delmege  hitherto,  and  the  gentle 
decency  of  his  daughter  and  her  husband,  forbade  such 
display.  And  so,  when  the  bailiffs  entered  the  cottage 
at  Lisnalee  to  commence  their  dread  work,  they  were 
met  silently,  and  without  the  least  show  of  opposition. 

It  was  heartrending  to  witness  it  —  this  same  cold, 
callous  precision  of  the  law.  The  quiet  disruption  of 
the  little  household  ;  the  removal,  bit  by  bit,  of  the 
furniture  ;  the  indifference  with  which  the  bailiffs  flung 
out  objects  consecrated  by  the  memories  of  generations, 
and  broke  them  and  mutilated  them,  made  this  sensi- 
tive and  impressionable  people  wild  with  anger.  In 
every  Irish  farmer's  house,  the  appointments  are  as 
exactly  identical  as  if  all  had  been  ordered,  in  some  far- 
off  time,  from  the  same  emporium,  and  under  one  in- 
voice. And  when  the  people  saw  the  rough  deal  chairs, 
the  settle,  the  ware,  the  little  pious  pictures,  the  beds 
with  their  hangings,  flung  out  in  the  field,  each  felt  that 
his  own  turn  had  come,  and  that  he  suffered  a  personal 
and  immediate  injury.  And  Father  Cussen  had  the 
greatest  difficulty  in  restraining  their  angry  passions 
from  flaming  up  into  riot,  that  would  bring  them  into 
immediate  and  deadly  conflict  with  the  forces  of  the 
Crown.  As  yet,  however,  the  inmates  had  not  appeared. 
There  was  an  interval  of  great  suspense  ;  and  then  Will 
McNamara,  a  splendid,  stalwart  young  farmer,  came 
forth,  the  cradle  of  the  youngest  child  in  his  arms.  He 
was  bleeding  from  the  forehead  ;  and  the  jDcople,  divin- 
ing what  had  taken  place,  raised  a  shout  of  anger  and 
detiance,  and  rushed  toward  the  house.  The  police 
moved  up  hastily,  and  Father  Cussen  beat  back  the 
people.  But  they  surged  to  and  fro  on  the  outer  line  of 
the  cordon ;  and  the  young  English  officer  tln-ew  away 
his  cigarette,  and  drew  in  the  long  thin  line  of  the  sol- 
diers. In  a  few  moments  Lizzie  came  forth,  holding 
one    child  in  her  arms,  and  a  younger  at  her  breast. 


MARTYRDOM  533 

Following  her  was  her  husbaiid  again,  still  bleeding 
from  the  forehead,  and  with  two  fricyhtened  children 
clinging  to  him.  Lastly,  Mike  Delmege  appeared.  The 
sight  of  the  old  man,  so  loved  and  respected  in  the  par- 
ish, as  he  came  forth  from  the  dark  framework  of  the 
cottage  door,  his  white  hair  tossed  wildly  down  on  his 
face,  and  streaming  on  his  neck,  and  his  once  stalwart 
frame  bent  and  broken  with  sorrow,  roused  the  people 
to  absolute  fury.  They  cursed  deeply  between  their 
teeth,  the  women  weeping  hysterically  ;  and  a  deep  low 
moan  echoed  far  down  the  thick  dark  masses  that 
stretched  along  the  road  and  filed  the  ditches  on  either 
hand.  For  over  two  hundred  years  the  Delmeges  had 
owned  Lisnalee  —  a  grand  race,  with  grand  traditions 
of  an  unstained  escutcheon  and  an  unspotted  name. 
And,  now,  as  the  last  member  of  the  honoured  family 
came  forth,  an  outcast  from  his  fathers'  home,  and  stood 
on  the  threshold  he  should  never  cross  again,  it  seemed 
as  if  the  dread  Angel  of  Ireland,  the  F'ate,  that  is  ever 
pursuing  her  children,  stood  by  him  ;  and,  in  his  person, 
drove  out  his  kindred  and  his  race.  The  old  man  stood 
for  a  moment  hesitating.  He  then  lifted  his  hands  to 
God  ;  and  kneeling  down,  he  kissed  reverentially  the 
sacred  threshold,  over  which  generations  of  his  dead 
had  been  taken,  over  whicii  he  had  passed  to  his  baj)- 
tism,  over  which  he  had  led  his  young  trembling  bride, 
over  which  he  had  followed  her  hallowed  remains.  It 
was  worn  and  polished  with  the  friction  of  the  centu- 
ries ;  but  so  l)itter  a  tear  had  never  fallen  on  it  before. 
Then,  raising  himself  up  to  his  full  height,  he  kissed 
the  lintel  of  the  door,  and  tiien  the  two  doorposts.  He 
lingered  still  ;  he  seemed  loath  to  leave.  And  the  bail- 
iffs, growing  impatient,  pushed  him  rudely  forward. 
Weak  and  exhausted,  the  old  man  stumbled  and  fell. 
An  angry  scream  broke  from  the  people,  and  a  few 
stones  were  flung.  And  Luke,  mIio  had  been  watching 
the  whole  melancholy  drama  with  a  bursting  heart,  broke 
away  from  Father  .\iartin,  and  forcing  his  way  beyond 
the  cordon  of   soldiers,  he  rushed    toward    the    house, 


534  LUKE  DELMEGE 

crying  in  a  voice  broken  with  sobs  and  emotion, 
"  Father  !  Father  !  " 

As  a  river  bursts  through  its  dam,  sweeping  all  before 
it,  the  crowd  surged  after  hira,  breaking  through  every 
obstacle.  The  police,  taken  by  surprise,  fell  away  ;  but 
a  young  sub-inspector  rode  swiftly  after  Luke,  and  get- 
ting in  front,  he  wheeled  around,  and  rudely  striking 
the  young  priest  across  the  breast  with  the  broad  fiat  of 
his  naked  sword,  he  shouted  :  — 

"  Get  back,  sir  !  get  back  !  We  must  maintain  law 
and  order  here  !  " 

For  a  moment  Luke  hesitated,  his  habitual  self-re- 
straint calculating  all  the  consequences.  Then,  a  whirl- 
wind of  Celtic  rage,  all  the  greater  for  having  been  pent 
up  so  long,  swept  away  every  consideration  of  prudence  ; 
and  with  his  strong  hand  tearing  the  weapon  from  the 
hands  of  the  young  officer,  he  smashed  it  into  fragments 
across  his  knees,  and  flung  them,  blood-stained  from 
his  own  fingers,  into  the  officer's  face.  At  the  same 
moment  a  young  girlish  form  burst  from  the  crowd, 
and  leaping  lightly  on  the  horse,  she  tore  the  young 
officer  to  the  ground.  It  was  Mona,  the  fisherman's 
sunny-haired  child,  now  grown  a  young  Amazon,  from 
her  practice  with  the  oar  and  helm,  and  the  strong,  kind 
buffeting  from  winds  and  waves.  The  horse  reared  and 
pranced  wildly.  This  saved  the  young  officer's  life. 
For  the  infuriated  crowd  were  kept  back  for  a  moment. 
Then  the  soldiers  and  police  charged  up  ;  and  with 
baton  and  bayonet  drove  back  the  people  to  the  shelter 
of  the  ditch.  Here,  safely  intrenched,  the  latter  sent 
a  volley  of  stones  flying  over  their  assailants'  heads, 
that  drove  them  back  to  safe  shelter.  In  the  pause  in 
the  conflict,  the  Resident  Magistrate  rode  up  and  read 
the  Riot  Act. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  folding  the  paper  coolly,  and  placing 
it  in  his  pocket,  "  the  first  stone  that  is  thrown  I  shall 
order  my  men  to  fire  !  " 

It  is  quite  possible,  however,  that  the  people  would 
have  disregarded  the  threat,  so  infuriated  were  they ; 


i 

i 


MARTYRDOM  535 

but  their  attention  was  just  then  diverted  by  a  tiny 
spurt  of  smoke,  that  broke  from  the  tliatch  of  Lisnalee 
Cottage.  For  a  moment  they  thought  it  was  an  acci- 
dent ;  but  tlie  smell  of  burning  petroleum  and  the 
swift  way  in  which  the  flames  caught  the  whole  roof 
and  enveloped  it  in  a  sheet  of  fire  undeceived  them. 
It  was  tlie  irrevocable  decree  of  the  landlord.  It  was 
the  sowing  with  salt  ;  the  fiat  that  never  again  should 
bread  be  broken  or  e3'elid  closed  on  that  hallowed  spot. 
The  solemnity  of  the  tragedy  hushed  people,  police, 
and  soldiers  into  silence.  Silently  they  watched  the 
greedy  flame  eat  up  thatch  and  timber,  and  cast  its 
refuse  into  a  black,  thick  volume  of  smoke,  that  rolled 
across  the  sea,  which  darkened  and  shuddered  beneatli 
it.  Then,  there  was  a  miglity  crash  as  the  heavy 
rafters  fell  in,  a  burst  of  smoke,  and  llame,  and  sparks; 
and  the  three  gables,  smoke-blackened,  llame-scorclied, 
stood  gaping  to  the  sky.  Father  Cussen  took  advan- 
tage of  the  momentary  lull  in  the  fierce  })assioiis  of  the 
people  to  induce  them  to  disperse  ;  but  they  doggedly 
stood  their  ground,  and  sent  shout  after  sliout  of  exe- 
cration and  hate  after  the  departing  bailiffs  and  tlieir 
escort.  And  as  they  watched  the  latter  moving  in 
steady,  military  formation  down  the  wldte  road,  a 
strange  apparition  burst  on  their  sight.  Across  the 
valley,  where  the  road  wound  round  by  copse  and  i)lan- 
tatioii,  a  carriage  was  seen  furiously  driven  toward 
them.  The  coachman  drove  the  victoria  from  a  back 
seat.  In  the  front  was  a  strange  and  imposing  ligure, 
that  swayed  to  and  fro  with  the  motion  of  the  carriage, 
yet  kept  himself  erect  in  an  attitude  of  dignity,  and 
even  majesty.  His  long  white  hair,  yellowed  and  abnost 
golden,  was  swept  back  upon  his  slioulders  by  the  land 
breeze  ;  and  a  white  beard,  forked  and  parted,  floated 
and  fell  to  tlie  waist.  He  held  his  hand  aloft  with  a 
gesture  of  warning.  With  the  other  he  clutcluMl  the 
carriage  rail.  The  priests  and  people  were  bewildered, 
as  they  stared  at  the  apparition.  Some  said  it  was  the 
landlord,  for  they  had  never  seen  that  gentleman  ;  and 


536  LUKE  DELMEGE 

with  the  eternal  hope  of  the  Irish,  they  thought  he 
might  have  relented,  and  was  coming  to  stop  the  evic- 
tion, and  reinstate  the  tenants.  Some  thought  it  was 
supernatural,  and  that  the  great  God  had  intervened 
at  the  last  moment,  and  sent  them  a  Moses.  But  they 
were  not  disappointed,  nay,  a  great  light  shone  upon 
their  faces,  when,  on  cresting  the  hill,  the  Canon's 
coachman  was  recognized,  and,  by  degrees,  the  old 
familiar  face  of  power  and  dignity  beamed  on  them. 
There  was  a  mighty  shout  of  welcome,  that  made  the 
soldiers  pause  and  turn  backward.  The  people,  mad 
with  delight  and  a  new  sense  of  hope  and  protection 
from  the  presence  of  their  mighty  patriarch,  crowded 
around  the  carriage,  kissed  his  hands,  knelt  for  his 
blessing,  told  him  that  if  he  had  been  in  time,  Lisnalee 
would  have  been  saved,  etc.,  etc.  Slowly  the  carriage 
forced  its  way  through  the  thick  masses  that  surged 
around  it.  The  old  man  saw  nothing.  His  eyes  were 
straining  out  to  where  the  peaked  burnt  gables  cut  the 
sky.  Then,  when  he  came  in  full  view  of  the  horror 
and  desolation —  the  broken  household  furniture,  the 
smoking  ruin,  the  evicted  family,  lingering  in  misery 
around  their  wrecked  habitation,  saw  the  old  man  bend- 
ing over  his  grandchild  in  the  cradle,  and  the  wound 
on  the  forehead  of  its  father,  he  groaned  aloud,  and 
with  a  despairing  cry,  "  My  people  !  oh  I  my  people  I " 
he  fell  back  helpless  in  his  carriage,  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands. 

A  few  days  after  Luke  Delmege  received  a  summons 
to  appear  before  a  special  court  that  was  to  sit  in  the 
Petty  Sessions  room  at  Ardavine,  to  answer  to  a  charge 
of  obstructing  the  police  in  the  discharge  of  their  duty, 
assaulting  a  police  officer,  etc. 

In  the  afternoon  of  that  day  of  trial,  Barbara  Wilson 
was  summoned  to  the  parlour  of  the  Good  Shepherd 
Convent.  The  Sister  who  summoned  her  took  'her 
young  charge  gaily  by  the  hand,  and  led  her,  wondering 
and  trembling,  along  the  nuns'  corridor  to  the  large 
reception   room   in   fi'ont    of    the    Convent.      With   a 


MARTYRDOM  53'. 

bright,  cheery  word,  she  ushered  Barbara  into  the  par- 
lour, and  closed  tlie  door.  There  were  two  in  the  room 
—  the  Bishop  and  the  Mother  Provincial.  The  former, 
advancing,  placed  a  chair  for  Barbara,  and  bade  her  be 
seated.  Barbara  sat,  her  hands  meekly  folded  in  her 
lap,  not  daring  to  lift  her  eyes,  but  filled  with  a  sweet 
emotion  of  mingled  apprehension  and  hope.  She  knew 
that  the  crisis  of  her  life  had  come.  The  Bishop  looked 
at  her  keenly  and  said  :  — 

"  Miss  Wilson,  the  secret  of  your  sojourn  here,  in  the 
character  of  a  penitent,  is  known.  You  cannot  remain 
here  any  longer  I  " 

"  ]My  Lord  !  "  she  said,  trembling,  "  I  have  been  very 
happy  here.     Could  you  not  let  me  remain  ?  " 

''  Quite  impossible,"  said  the  Bishop.  "  In  fact,  Tm 
not  quite  sure  that  the  whole  thing  has  not  been  irregu- 
lar from  the  beginning.  You  must  now  resume  your 
proper  station  in  life." 

"  I  am  very  helpless,  and  quite  unfit  for  the  world, 
my  Lord,"  said  Barbara.  The  dream  and  its  realization 
seemed  now  totally  dispelled.  "  What  can  I  turn  to 
now,  especially  as  my  past  is  known  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  can  easily  assume  j'our  proper  place  in 
society,"  said  the  Bishop.  "  You  are  young ;  life  is 
before  you,  and  you  may  be  very  happy  yet." 

"  My  Lord,"  said  Barbara,  weeping,  "  if  it  is  happi- 
ness I  seek,  I  shall  never  know  such  happiness  again  as 
I  have  experienced  here.  But  I  know  all  now.  I 
was  murnniring  against  my  cross,  and  dreaming  of 
other  things;  and  now  God  has  taken  away  my  cross 
and  my  happiness  forever.  O  Mother,  dear  Motlier, 
plead  for  me,  and  lot  me  go  l)ack  again  !  " 

"  Jmpossible,  child,"  said  Mother  Provincial,  but  with 
a  tone  that  brought  Barbara  to  her  knees  in  a  moment. 
Slie  buried  her  face  in  the  Mother's  lap,  crying  passion- 
ately. 

"Oh,  Motlier,  you  can,  you  can.  Ko(']i  me  here! 
I'll  do  anything,  anything  you  like  :  but  don't  send  me 
out  into  the  world,  the  dreadful  world,  again.      Oh  my 


538  LUKE  DELMEGE 

Lord,"  she  cried,  "  I  saw  things  once,  that  I  never  care 
to  see  again  —  one  dreadful  night  when  I  lost  poor 
Louis  in  London,  and  sought  him,  up  and  down,  for 
hours.  And,  oh!  I  found  heaven  here,  and  I  didn't 
know  it.  And  God  is  punishing  me  dreadfully.  O 
Lord,  dear  Lord,  give  me  back  my  cross,  and  I  promise 
never,  never  again  to  repine,  or  revolt  against  it !  " 

The  thought  of  facing  the  great,  hard,  bitter  world 
had  never  occurred  to  her  before,  until  now,  when  the 
door  of  her  happy  home  was  opened,  and  she  was  bade 
to  depart.  All  the  nervous  fear  of  an  inexperienced 
soul,  and  all  the  horror  of  one  which  has  been  in  the 
world,  but  not  of  it,  combined  to  fill  her  with  a  strange 
dread,  which  became  almost  hysterical.  In  her  great 
agony  her  white  cap  fell,  releasing  the  long,  rich  tresses 
that  now  flowed  down,  tossed  and  dishevelled,  and 
swept  the  ground.  And  the  Bishop  thought,  that  if 
the  picture  could  be  transferred  to  canvas,  it  would 
make  a  "Magdalen"  such  as  no  painter  had  ever 
dreamed  before.  But  he  remonstrated,  reasoned,  argued, 
pleaded.  What  would  the  world  say  ?  what  would  even 
good  Catholics  think  ?  what  reflections  would  be  cast 
upon  the  Church,  her  discipline,  her  teaching,  etc.  ? 
But  the  silent,  prostrate  figure  made  no  reply.  And 
the  Bishop  went  over  to  study  carefully  a  picture  of 
the  Good  Shepherd,  which  he  had  seen  a  hundred 
times. 

After  an  interval.  Mother  Provincial  said,  looking 
down  on  Barbara,  and  smoothing  with  her  hand  her 
long,  fine  hair  :  — 

''  My  Lord,  I  think  there  is  one  condition  on  which 
we  could  keep  Miss  Wilson  here  ?  " 

Barbara  lifted  her  face.  The  Bishop  turned  round 
rapidly. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  said,  without  a  trace  of  dignity, 
and  with  very  red  eyes. 

"If  Miss  Wilson  could  care  to  change  this  dress," 
said  Mother  Provincial,  touching  the  blue  mantella, 
"  for  the  habit  of  the  Good  Shepherd  —  " 


MARTYRDOM  539 

"  Oh,  Mother,  Mother  !  there's  my  dream,  my 
dream  !  "  cried  Barbara,  in  a  paroxysm  of  sur})rise  and 
delight.  "  O  Lord,  dearest,  sweetest  Lord,  how  good 
art  Thou  I  and  how  wicked  and  unbelieving  have  I 
been  !  Oh,  my  Lord  I  "  she  cried,  turning  to  the 
Bishop,  with  clasped  hands,  "  there  was  hardly  a  night 
in  wliich  1  did  not  dream  I  was  a  Sister  of  the  Good 
Shepherd  ;  and  1  thought  our  dear  Lord  Himself  clothed 
me  with  His  wounded  hands  ;  and  I  used  even  touch 
the  gaping  wounds  with  my  fingers,  as  He  said  :  '  Arise, 
and  come  :  the  winter  is  past  ! '  But  oh  I  the  agony 
of  waking  and  finding  it  was  all  a  dream.  And  then, 
I  used  reproach  myself  with  being  unfaithful  to  my 
vow  ;  and  I  used  pray  ;  but  oh  !  with  such  a  faltering 
heart,  '  I  have  chosen,  I  have  chosen,  to  be  an  abject  in 
the  house  of  my  Lord  !  '  And  now,  here  is  my  dream 
realized.  Oh,  Mother,  I  shall  never,  never  distrust  my 
dear  God  again  !  " 

"Very  well,  Mother,"  said  the  Bishop,  trying  to 
steady  his  voice.  "  There's  one  clear  sign  of  a  vocation 
whatever,  that  this  young  lady  has  been  thinking  of 
your  white  habit  so  long.  Now,  can  she  make  her 
novitiate  here  ?  " 

"  I  think  not,  my  Lord,"  said  the  Mother  Provincial. 
"  I  shall  send  her  to  Cork,  for  many  reasons." 

"  Well,  then,  the  sooner  the  better,  I  jiresume,"  said 
the  Bishop.  "There's  a  train  at  5.20.  Will  the  young 
lady  have  time  to  change  her  dress  in  that  time  ?  Very 
well.  My  carriage  will  be  at  the  Convent  door  at  a 
quarter  to  five  o'clock.  And,  as  1  have  some  business 
to  transact  in  Cork,  I  shall  have  the  honour  of  escorting 
jNIiss  Wilson  to  her  new  home." 

"Mother,"  said  Barbara,  "I'm  stu[)id  with  delight. 
Can  I  say  good-bye  to  my  —  to  the  penitents?" 

"  No  !  "  said  the  Mother,  "  you  must  enter  on  your 
obedience  at  once  I  " 

"  Not  even  to  poor  Laura,  Mother  ?  " 

"  Well,  ves,  when  you  have  chancred  vour  dress,"  said 
Mother  Provincial,  with  some  hesitation. 


540  LUKE  DELMEGE 

It  was  a  happy  parting,  that  between  Barbara  and 
the  soul  she  had  saved  :  for  it  was  only  for  a  time. 
And  it  was  a  hapi3y  little  soul,  that  moved  down 
amongst  the  lilies  and  azaleas  of  the  nuns'  corridor, 
escorted  by  Sister  Eulalie,  who  whispered  :  — 

"  If  only  Luke  were  here  now,  how  happy  he  would 
be  !  " 

And  out  from  behind  doors  and  recesses  and  flower 
pedestals,  rushed  ever  and  again  some  white-robed 
figure,  who  flung  her  arms  silently  around  the  young 
postulant,  silently  kissed  her  on  the  face  and  niouth, 
and  silently  vanished.  And  as  she  rolled  along  in  the 
Bishop's  carriage  she  thought  :  "  To  see  uncle  and 
father  now  would  be  heaven.  But  no  !  not  till  I  am 
clothed.  Then  they'll  see  me,  and  rejoice.  Oh  !  how 
good  is  God  !  " 

As  they  entered  the  Cork  train,  there  emerged  from 
a  train  that  had  just  run  in  on  the  opposite  platform 
a  strange  procession.  First  came  a  detachment  of 
police,  with  rifles  and  full  equipments  ;  then  a  batch 
of  poor  peasants  and  labourers,  evidently  prisoners  ; 
then  a  young  girl,  with  a  plaid  shawl  around  her  head  ; 
then  a  priest,  with  his  arm  in  a  sling.  Barbara  caught 
her  breath,  and  could  not  forbear  saying  aloud  :  — 

"That's  Father  Delmege,  my  Lord  !  " 

"  So  it  is  !  "  said  the  Bishop,  who  had  been  watch- 
ing intently.  "Take  your  seat,  whilst  I  go  to  see 
him  !  " 

And  so,  as  Barbara  passed  from  her  martyrdom 
rejoicing,  Luke  entered  on  his. 

He  had  been  duly  arraigned  before  the  constituted 
tribunals  of  the  land,  and  had  taken  his  place  in  court. 
He  would  gladly  have  gone  into  the  dock  with  his  fel- 
low-prisoners ;  but  the  law,  always  polite  and  courteous 
and  inexorable,  would  not  allow  it.  It  was  a  wonder 
that  he  was  not  invited  on  the  Bench  to  try  himself. 
When  the  magistrates  entered,  all  present  uncovei'ed 
their  heads  but  the  prisoners.  They  wished  to  protest 
against  law,  and  legislators,  and  executive  alike. 


I 


MARTYRDOM  -541 

"  Take  off  your  hats  !  "  shouted  the  police  angrily. 

The  prisoners  refused  ;  and  one  of  the  constables, 
roughly  seizing  one  of  the  young  men,  dashed  his  hat 
furiously  on  the  ground. 

"  Remove  your  hats,  boys,"  said  Luke,  from  the  place 
he  occupied  near  the  Bench.  "Respect  yourselves,  if 
you  cannot  respect  the  Court." 

The  young  men  doffed  their  hats  immediately.  It 
was  almost  pitiful,  this  little  protest  of  defiance  ;  pitiful, 
by  reason  of  its  very  impotence. 

The  Court  proceeded  to  try  the  cases,  with  calm, 
equable  formality,  each  case  being  individually  handled 
to  show  complete  impartiality.  Every  one  in  court 
understood  that  the  conviction  was  a  foregone  conclu- 
sion. But  everything  should  be  done  regularly  and  in 
form  ;  though  every  prisoner  felt  the  merciless  grasp 
of  the  law  upon  him.  And  so  the  proceedings  moved 
steadily  on  to  their  conclusion,  like  well-oiled  macliin- 
ery,  smooth,  harmonious,  regular,  irresistible.  The 
magistrates  consulted  for  a  few  minutes  and  then 
announced  their  decisions.  The  poor  peasants  and 
labourers  were  sentenced  to  terms  of  imprisonment, 
varying  from  three  to  six  months,  but  always  accom- 
panied with  hard  labour.  When  ^Fona's  turn  came, 
she  was  sentenced  to  six  months'  imprisonment  without 
hard  labour.  She  stood  in  front  of  the  dock,  looking 
calmly  and  defiantly  at  the  Bench.  Her  eyes  alone 
blazed  eontem{)t  and  determination. 

"  I  want  no  favours  from  ye,"  she  cried,  as  her  sen- 
tence was  announced.  "  Ye  are  ininiies  of  me  creed 
and  country." 

"  In  consideration  of  your  sex  and  youth,  we  dispense 
you  from  hard  labour,"  said  the  presiding  magistrate, 
"•altlioiigh  your  offence  was  a  most  serious  one,  and 
might  liave  imperilled  the  life  of  the  officer  —  " 

"He  struck  a  coward's  blow,"  said  Mona,  "an'  it 
was  right  that  a  Avoman's  hand  should  chastise  him." 

The  magistrates  were  [jassing  on  to  the  next  prisoner, 
when  she  again  interrupted  :  — 


542-  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  Will  ye  gV  me  the  hard  labour  ?  "  she  said.  "  No 
wan  shall  ever  say  that  I  showed  the  white  feather." 

"  Then  we  change  your  sentence  to  three  months,  and 
hard  labour,"  said  the  magistrate. 

"  Thank  ye,"  she  said,  pulling  the  shawl  again  over 
her  face. 

'"•  We  have  taken  into  account,  Mr.  Delmege,"  con- 
tinued the  magistrate,  courteously,  "  your  position,  and 
the  excellent  character  you  have  hitherto  maintained. 
We  also  took  into  account  that  in  one  sense,  the  grave 
assault  of  which  you  were  guilty,  and  which  might  have 
led  to  lamentable  consequences,  was  possibly  owing  to 
the  great  excitement  that  unhappily  accompanies  the 
operations  of  the  law  in  this  country.  We,  therefore, 
are  of  opinion  that  the  requirements  of  the  law  and 
justice  shall  be  satisfied  by  asking  you  to  enter  into 
your  own  recognizances  to  observe  the  peace  for  twelve 
months." 

Luke  arose,  pale  and  weak.  His  right  hand  was 
badly  swollen,  and  he  still  was  in  danger  of  blood- 
poisoning. 

"  I  am  sure,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  you  do  not  intend 
it  ;  but  I  can  hardly  regard  your  decision  as  other  than 
an  insult.  There  has  been  nothing  alleged  in  my 
favour  to  extenuate  the  oifence,  or  mitigate  the  severity 
of  the  law.  I  am  more  guilty  than  these  poor  fellows 
and  that  poor  girl.  If  there  be  any  reason  for  clem- 
ency, let  it  be  extended  to  her.  She  has  an  aged 
father,  and  a  sick  sister  at  home  —  " 

"  No,  Father  Luke,"  said  Mona,  "  I  want  no  mercy 
from  the  government  of  England.  Ill  go  to  jail,  with 
more  joy  than  I'd  go  to  me  weddin' ;  an'  God  and  His 
Blessed  Mother  will  look  afther  Moira  and  father." 

Then  she  broke  into  hysterical  weeping. 

"  It  is  an  extremely  painful  duty,  but  we  are  unwill- 
ing to  proceed  to  extremities  in  such  a  case.  If  j^ou 
can  see  your  way,  Mr.  Delmege,  to  accept  our  decision, 
I  assure  you  it  will  give  us  great  pleasure,"  said  the 
magistrate. 


MARTYRDOM  543 

"Once  more,  gentlemen,  I  appeal  to  your  clemency 
on  behalf  of  this  poor  girl,"  said  Luke.  "  Prison  life  is 
not  suitable  for  the  young." 

"Don't  demane  yerself  and  me,  yer  reverence,  by 
askin'  pity  from  thim,"  said  INIona,  with  flashing  eyes. 
"  Sure  we're  only  goin'  where  all  the  hayroes  of  our 
race  wint  before  us." 

"  Once  more,  Mr.  Delmege,"  said  the  magistrate,  "  will 
you  enter  on  your  own  recognizances  —  " 

"Impossible,  gentlemen,"  said  Luke,  sitting  down. 

"  Then  it  is  our  painful  duty  to  direct  that  you  be 
imprisoned  for  three  calendar  months  from  this  date, 
and  without  hard  labour." 

"  And  so  you're  a  prisoner  ?  "  said  the  Bishop,  after 
he  had  blessed  the  crowd  of  kneeling  prisoners,  and 
given  his  ring  to  little  Mona  to  be  kissed.  "  I  expected 
it.  Take  care  of  that  nasty  wound  in  j^our  hand.  I 
hope  the  doctor  will  send  you  straight  to  the  iiifirniary."' 

"  Don't  fdl  my  vacancy,  my  Lord,"  said  Luke,  "  at 
least  till  I  return.  ]\Iy  father  has  no  other  shelter 
now." 

"  Never  fear,"  said  the  Bishop.  "  I'll  send  a  tempo- 
rary substitute,  with  special  instructions  to  Dr.  Keat- 
inge." 

"Thank  you,  my  Lord!  "  said  Luke. 

"Well,  good-byel  We'll  see  you  sometimes  in  ynur 
hermitage.  By  the  way,  do  you  know  M'ho's  accom- 
panying me  to  Cork  ?  " 

"  No,  my  Lord  I  "  said  Luke,  wonderingly. 

"You  might  have  heard  of  ]\Iiss  AVilson,  the  niece  of 
Cantm  jNIurra}-  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure,  I  know  her  well,"  said  Luke,  eagerly. 

"She  has  had  a  strange  history;  but  I'll  tell  you 
some  other  time.  These  fellows  are  growing  impatient. 
She's  about  to  commence  her  novitiate  as  a  postulant  of 
the  (lood  Shepherds  in  Cork." 

"Oh,  thank  (lodi  "  said  Luke,  so  fervently  that  the 
Bishop  wondered  exceedingly. 


1% 


CHAPTER   XL 

REUNION 

"  Sorrow  gives  the  accolade!  "  Yes.  The  blow  is 
sharp  ;  but  the  quickening  is  very  great.  It  was  just 
what  Luke  wanted.  All  great  souls  covet  ]3ain  ;  and 
Luke's  was  a  great  soul,  though  he  was  unconscious  of 
it  ;  and  though  he  had  been  striving  to  stifle  during  all 
his  life  his  sublime  aspirations,  and  to  sacrifice  them  on 
the  modern  altar  of  mere  commonplace  and  respecta- 
bility. Circumstances,  or  rather  the  Supreme  Mind  that 
guides  circumstances,  had  now  brought  him  face  to  face 
with  suffering  and  even  shame,  and  he  exulted.  For, 
if  there  is  a  glory  in  the  prison,  and  a  sunlight  on  the 
r.caffold,  nevertheless,  the  very  thought  of  personal  re- 
straint, and  the  sense  of  loss  of  man's  highest  preroga- 
tive, liberty,  bring  with  them  a  deep  humiliation;  and 
the  sharp  knighthood  of  the  sword  is  forgotten  for  a 
moment  in  the  vulgar  grasjD  of  the  jailer.  Then  comes 
the  reaction  ;  and  the  sense  of  exultation  ;  and  the  keen 
embrace  of  pain  has  a  quickening  and  vivifying  power 
over  soul  and  nerves  not  yet  strained  and  unstrung  by 
selfishness. 

Then  again,  Luke  found  he  was  an  object  of  respect- 
ful solicitude  to  all  around  him.  The  doctor  instantly 
placed  him  in  the  infirmary.  His  right  hand  was  swol- 
len to  an  alarming  extent  ;  and  it  was  only  after  the 
lapse  of  some  weeks  that  the  dangerous  symptoms 
subsided. 

"  If  that  hand  shall  ever  get  hurt  again,"  said  the 
doctor,  "I  won't  answer  for  his  life." 

These  days  were  days  of  depression  for  Luke  —  or 

544 


REUNION  545 

moments  of  depression  in  hours  of  deep  thought.  Left 
completely  to  himself,  his  mind  ran  over  the  events  of 
his  life  in  detail.  There  was  little  with  whieh  he  could 
reproach  himself.  Yet,  he  was  unsatisfied.  Then,  from 
time  to  time,  odd  phrases  that  had  fastened  on  his 
memory  would  come  up  at  most  unexpected  times,  and 
plague  him  with  their  persistency.  His  verdict  on 
Barbara  Wilson  ten  years  ago  in  the  Schweizerhof : 
"She's  not  mortal;  she's  a  spirit  and  a  symbol  —  the 
symbol  of  the  suffering  and  heroism  of  my  race "  — 
came  up,  again  and  again,  doubly  emphasized  now  by 
all  lie  had  heard  and  seen  of  her  years  of  renunciation 
and  suffering.  And  his  thoughts  passed  over  from  the 
symbol  to  the  symbolized  ;  and  the  strange  expressions 
used  by  so  many  priests  about  Ireland  surged  back  upon 
his  memory. 

"  What  would  the  Jews  have  been  if  they  had  not 
rejected  Christ?  " 

"  We  have  to  create  our  own  civilization  ;  we  cannot 
borrow  that  of  other  countries." 

"  We  are  the  teachers  of  the  world ;  not  the  pupils 
of  its  vulgarity  and  selfishness." 

One  night,  in  the  early  weeks  of  his  imprisonment,  he 
lay  awake  in  pain,  tossing  from  side  to  side  in  great 
agony.  His  mind  was  unusually  active  ;  and  the  sud- 
den thought  seized  him  to  sketch  a  visionary  future  for 
his  country,  founded  on  this  ideal  of  simi)licity  and 
self-renunciation.  As  liis  thoughts  worked  onwards, 
and  built  u[)  this  airy  commonwealth  of  Christ,  the  pain 
Avas  completely  forgotten  ;  and  he  fell  asleep  early  in 
the  morning.  The  doctor  found  his  tempei'ature  much 
higher  on  his  morning  call;  yet  he  declared  him  some- 
what better. 

"  Doctor,  I  want  something  badly,"  said  Luke.  "  Can 
I  have  it  ?  " 

''  By  all  means,"  said  the  doctor.     "  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Pen,  ink,  and  plenty  of  foolscap  paper,"  said  Luke. 

"Not  yet,"  said  the  ddctor.      "I  presume  you  have 
not  yet  learned  to  write  with  your  toes." 
2n 


546  LUKE  DELMEGE 

It  was  so  much  the  better,  because  Luke  had  time  to 
think  and  develop  his  ideas  more  fully,  before  he  com- 
mitted them  to  paper. 

Then  the  pain  and  sacrifice  met  with  their  immediate 
reward.  There  was  no  demonstration  on  his  release 
from  prison.  He  was  an  unknown  factor  in  politics. 
Even  in  Rossmore  there  was  no  ovation.  It  was  felt 
that  he  was  above  such  things.  But,  during  his  impris- 
onment, every  kindness  and  attention  was  lavished  on 
his  father  and  sister  and  her  children,  who  had  to  be- 
come his  guests  in  his  little  home.  And  the  same  silent, 
gentle  sympathy  flowed  around  him  when  he  returned. 
Mary  wept  hysterically,  and  kissed  his  hands  passion- 
ately ;  and  wept  still  more  when  she  saw  his  face  drawn 
and  pale  from  much  suffering.     John  said  :  — 

"Bad  luck  to  the  government  and  the  landlords! 
Wondher  they  let  him  out  alive !  " 

Every  kind  of  shy,  pathetic  question  was  put  to  him 
by  this  sympathetic  people  ;  every  kind  of  gentle,  unob- 
trusive benevolence  was  shown  him.  They  could  not 
presume  too  far  upon  this  grave,  silent  man ;  but  they 
spoke  their  mute  love  and  admiration  in  a  hundred  ways. 
Yet  things  were  a  little  tightened  in  economical  matters 
sometimes.  Will  McNamara  had  gone  to  America  ;  but 
the  father  and  Lizzie  and  the  children  were  there.  And 
children  must  have  bread,  and  meat,  and  clothes,  too. 
Nature  says  so,  and  must  not  be  denied. 

One  day  Luke  was  walking  down  the  village  street 
in  his  silent,  abstracted  way,  when  he  heard  a  voice 
challenging  him,  and  rather  defiantly  :  — 

"What's  the  matther  wid  me  mate,  yer  reverence?" 

He  turned  round,  and  came  face  to  face  with  the 
village  butcher,  Joe  Morrissey.  Joe  seemed  to  be 
angry.  There  had  been  for  a  long  time  a  certain 
want  of  sympathy  between  Joe  and  the  "Cojutor." 
For  Joe  was  a  Nationalist,  and  an  extreme  one.  He 
had  been  out  in  '67 ;  had  cut  the  telegraph  wires 
between  the  Junction  and  Limerick ;  and  had  been 
one  of  the  last  to  part  from  the  young  Irishman  who 


EEUNION  547 

gave  up  his  life  gallantly  for  his  country  in  the  woods 
near  Shraliarla.  And  he  had  taken  it  as  granted 
that  this  polished,  well-dressed  young  priest,  who  was 
always  preaching  the  virtues  of  the  Anglo-Saxon, — 
their  thrift,  punctuality,  etc.,  and  consequently  empha- 
sizing the  defects  of  his  own  countrymen,  —  could  not 
be  a  Nationalist  or  a  patriot.  His  opinions  changed 
a  little  after  the  sermon  on  Cremona ;  and  had  now 
completely  veered  round  after  the  scene  at  the  evic- 
tion and  the  subsequent  knighthood  of  the  jail. 

"•  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  INIorrissey,"  said  Luke, 
humbly,  for  life's  events  had  made  him  very  humble. 

"  I  want  to  know,  yer  reverence,"  said  Joe,  clapping 
his  broad  knife  across  the  palm  of  his  hand,  "  what's 
the  matther  wid  my  mate  that  you're  reflectin'  on  it?" 

^  I'm  sure  I'm  (|uite  unconscious,  Mr.  ^lorrissey," 
said  Luke,  quite  puzzled,  "of  having  said  anything 
derogatory  —  " 

"•  Look  at  that  for  mate,"  said  Joe,  unheeding,  and 
slapping  with  the  knife  the  joints  that  hung  in  the 
open  window.  "  Is  there  the  likes  of  that  in  the 
County  Limbrick?  Look  at  that  for  lane,  rc^l  and 
juicy;  and  that  fat,  rich  and  cramey;  and  what's  a 
po(jr  man  to  do  whin  his  clergy  and  tlie  heads  of  liis 
Church  —  " 

'•  Don't  mind  him,  yer  reverence,"  said  jNIrs.  Mor- 
rissey,  coming  out,  and  wiping  away  with  her  check 
apron  the  tears  that  were  streaming  down  her  face; 
''  he  doesn't  mane  what  he  says,  yer  reverence  — " 

"Will  ye  hold  yer  tongue,  'uman  ? "  said  Joe, 
angrily;  "can't  you  let  me  talk  wliin  a  gintleman 
comes  into  the  shop?  I  say,  yer  reverence,  'tis  a 
shame  that  our  clergy  should  be  turnin'  their  backs 
on  their  daeent  parishioners,  and  sindin'  for  their 
mate  to  Limbrick  and  elsewhere,  whilst  —  " 

"  Never  mind  liini  agin,  yer  reverence,"  interposed 
Mrs.  Morrissey,  still  weei)ing.  "  What  he  manes  is,  that 
every  Saturday,  wid  God's  blessin',  for  the  future,  a  leg 
aud  a  line  (^loin}  will  go  down  to  you  ;  and,  sure,  some 


548  LUKE  DELMEGE 

time  or  other,  you  can  paj^  us.  And  &ure  if  you  never 
did,  God  is  good." 

Joe  had  gone  out  in  his  indignation  ;  and  was  look- 
ing up  and  down  the  street,  in  a  very  determined  man- 
ner. Luke  came  out,  and  was  about  to  ex^aress  his 
gratitude  when  Joe  stopped  him. 

"  There's  jest  wan  favour  I  want  to  ask  yer  reverence," 
he  said. 

"  To  be  sure,  Mr.  Morrissey,  if  I  can  possibly  grant 
it,"  said  Luke,  in  wonder. 

"Oh,  begor,  3'ou  can,"  said  Joe,  cheerfully.  "  Since 
I  wos  the  height  of  that,"  he  said,  stooping  down  and 
putting  his  open  palm  within  six  inches  of  the  ground, 
"  no  one  ever  called  me  anything  but  Joe.  Me  father 
called  me  Joe  ;  me  mother  called  me  Joe  ;  me  brothers 
and  sisters  called  me  Joe;  tin  schoolmaster  called  me 
Joe,  whin  he  didn't  call  me,  '  You  d — d  ruffian  ! '  Whin 
I  grew  up,  and  got  married,  me  wife  called  me  Joe  ;  and 
whin  God  sint  the  childre,  wan  be  wan,  begor  !  they 
never  called  me  annything  but  Joe.  The  youngster  inside 
in  the  cradle  knows  me  as  well  as  yer  reverence  ;  and 
faix  !  he  never  calls  me  '  daddy,'  but  Joe.  And  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  yer  reverence,  whin  you  call  me  Misthei 
Morrisse}^,  I  don't  know  who  you're  talking  to.  Would 
it  make  any  difference  to  yer  reverence  to  call  me  Joe, 
like  all  the  nabours  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,  Mr.  —  Joe,"  said  Luke,  deeply 
touched,    and   stretching   out   his   hand.     "  God   bless 

"  'Tis  dirty,"  said  Joe,  hastily  rubbing  his  hand  on  his 
breeches,  "but  'tis  the  hand  of  an  honest  man." 

And  Joe  had  the  reward  of  his  generosity.  It  came 
quickly,  and  in  its  most  attractive  form.  That  is,  the 
little  incident  gave  him  the  opportunity  —  the  dearest 
that  can  fall  to  the  lot  of  an  Irishman  in  this  world  — of 
making  a  good  joke.  And  so,  when  he  sat  that  evening 
on  the  leaden  ledge  of  his  open  window,  and  lit  his  pipe, 
he  was  a  happy  man. 

"  Begor,"  he  said  to  the  group  that  always  surrounded 


REUNION  549 

his  establishment,  "  'tis  the  best  thing  that  occurred 
for  nianny  a  h)ng  day.  'INIind  the  pinnies,'  sez  he,  'an' 
the  poun's  will  take  care  of  theirselves.'  Hal  ha  I  ha! 
'  Look  out  for  a  rainy  day,'  sez  he,  '  an'  make  hay  while 
the  sun  shines.'  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  I  ha  !  Begor!  the  poor 
man  wint  to  a  bad  schoolmaster  whin  he  began  to  tache 
himself.  For,  faix,  he  hasn't  even  a  butcher's  pinny  to 
bless  himself  wid." 

*'  How  could  hu  have  it  ?  "  said  a  bystander,  "  whin 
he  gives  it  to  this,  that,  and.  the  other  wan.  Begor, 
the  Bank  of  England  wouldn't  sthand  it." 

"  Look  here,  hones'  man,"  said  Joe  ]\lorrissey,  taking 
the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  "that's  all  right  ;  and  'tisn't 
me  as  is  goin'  to  find,  fault  with  him.  But,  what  did 
he  want  talkin'  to  us  about  savin'  money,  whin  he 
wasn't  savin'  it  himself ;  and  all  about  English  ways, 
whin  the  man  has  an  Irish  heart,  no  matter  how  he 
consales  it  ?  That's  what  kills  me.  Sure,  the  ould 
sayin'  is  thrue  —  Do  what  the  priests  tell  ye  ;  but  don't 
do  what  the  priests  do  theirselves." 

So  public  opinion  surged  around  Luke  in  these  days 
of  trial.  For  now,  Lizzie  and  her  little  children  had  to 
go  away.  The  strong,  brave  young  farmer  had  got  a 
job  in  the  docks  of  New  York;  and  had  paid  tlieir  pas- 
sage. And,  with  breaking  hearts  on  both  sides,  they 
parted  with  all  they  held  dear  on  earth,  and  exchanged 
the  free,  pure  air,  the  sweet  waters,  the  rushing  winds, 
tiie  rustling  trees,  the  murmuring  seas,  and  freedom 
and  happiness,  for  a  flat  in  the  tenement  house  in  the 
great  city,  and  the  fever  and  the  fret  of  a  ]iew  life. 
Ah,  me  !  will  it  ever  cease  —  this  dread  transformation 
in  lives  tliat  were  never  created  but  for  the  sweetness 
and  purity,  the  silence  and  the  holiness  of  sini})le 
rural  environments?  And  one  day,  old  Mike  Delniege, 
''  heart-broke  afther  the  little  childhre,"  bowed  his 
head,  and  was  gathered  unto  his  fathers. 

Then  there  came  a  great  void  in  Luke's  life.  He 
shrank  ever  more  and  more  into  himself  ;  and  without 
being  in  the  least  degree  moody  or  reserved,  he   de- 


550  LUKE  DELMEGE 

tached  himself  from  all  human  things ;  and  wrought 
in  simple  earnest  love  towards  the  Divine.  But  the 
few  ties  which  circumstances  had  created  for  him, — 
spiritual  ties  that  grew  all  the  stronger  by  reason  of 
their  unworldliness  —  drew  him  from  time  to  time  from 
his  hermitage,  and  maintained  for  him  that  perfect 
poise  between  the  world  and  God,  which  would  other- 
wise have  been  broken  by  a  morose  asceticism  or  a  too 
great  leaning  over  to  the  creature.  And  so  he  kept  up 
a  constant  and  mutually  edifying  correspondence  and 
intercourse  with  Father  Tracey  and  Father  ^lartin  ; 
and  sometimes  he  found  himself  in  a  closer  and  more 
intimate  friendship  with  his  Bishop  than  he  had  ever 
dreamed  of. 

And  one  day,  he  found  himself  the  happy  intermedi- 
ary in  a  little  scene  in  the  Canon's  drawing-room,  which 
seemed  to  him  a  beautiful  and  divinely  appointed  de- 
nouement in  the  little  drama  in  which  he  had  been  not 
always  a  successful  actor. 

The  good  Canon  had  had  a  relapse  after  the  exciting 
scene  at  the  eviction,  and  had  sunk  into  a  condition  of 
extreme  helplessness.  One  side  was  hopelessly  para- 
lyzed ;  and  he  had  to  be  wheeled  from  room  to  room 
in  a  bath-chair.  The  tolerant  legislation  of  the  Irish 
Church  reflects  strongly  the  charitable  bias  of  the  peo- 
ple's minds  ;  and  allows  an  aged  pastor,  "•  who  has  borne 
the  burden  of  the  day  and  the  heat,"  and  who  is  dis- 
qualified for  further  work,  to  retain  his  parish  and  pres- 
bytery to  the  end,  in  sturdy  independence.  And  it 
was  very  beautiful  and  edifying  to  see  the  broken  and 
enfeebled  giant,  rolled  in  and  out  to  his  little  church, 
where  he  spent  the  greater  part  of  his  declining  days. 
The  little  children  used  fight  for  the  honour  of  rolling 
back  across  the  gravelled  walk  their  aged  pastor.  They 
had  lost  all  fear  of  him  now,  even  of  the  great  snowy 
beard  that  swept  down  on  his  breast.  And  still  the 
people  came  to  consult  him  in  their  troubles,  and  to 
talk  of  the  golden  age  that  had  been.  And  so  calmly 
and  peacefully  his  days  glided  on  to  the  great  sea,  over 


1 


KEUNION  551 

TV'hich  he  looked  without  fear,  or  terror,  or  misgiving. 
One  thing  only  troubled  this  calm  evening  of  life  — 
the  mystery  that  hung  around  his  beloved  niece.  Her 
strange  history  had  been  carefully  concealed  from  him, 
until  all  should  be  ripe  for  revelation. 

He  was  dozing  calmly  one  summer  afternoon,  when 
Luke  was  announced.  The  latter  had  often  called  to 
exchange  ideas  with  his  old  pastor,  and  to  relieve  the 
monotony  of  his  illness.  The  Canon  was  not  surprised, 
therefore,  only  deeply  pleased  at  the  announcement. 

"  Ha,  my  dear  young  friend,"  he  said,  ''  you  caught 
me  —  ha  —  napping.  Take  a  chair,  and  sit  down  with 
me  for  a  while.  Somehow,  old  times  seem  to  have  come 
back  most  vividly  this  —  a  —  afternoon." 

He  was  silent  for  a  time,  his  mind  busily  gatliering 
up  the  broken  threads  of  the  past.  Luke  sought  to 
divert  his  attention  by  telling  of  his  own  experiences. 

"  My  sister  and  her  husband  are  doing  well  in  New 
York,"  he  said.  "  I  have  had  a  letter  lately,  asking  had 
any  one  taken  Lisnalee." 

"That  is  not  very  likely,"  said  the  Canon.  "  Lisna- 
lee remains  a  monument,  and  forever  —  well,  we  must 
not  be  resentful.  But  —  the  events  of  that — ha — 
miserable  day  had  one  good  effect.  Tlie  horror  lias  not 
—  ha  —  been  repeated;  but  the  people  are  anxious, 
frightened,  dispirited.  They  know  not  when  the  evil 
spirit  will  come  again." 

"•  Yes,"  said  Luke,  mournfully  ;  "  the  golden  age  of 
my  poor  parish  is  passed  forever. 

"  Yet,"  he  said,  brightening  up,  "the  world  is  not  all 
a  hopeless  and  helpless  place  ;  nor  life  altogether  an 
insoluble  ]irf)l)lem." 

"You  have  lu'urd  —  ha  —  something- that  nii<:hl  excite 
your  hopes,  and  —  ha  —  sympathies  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Luke.  "I  have  heard  something  that 
deeply  concerns  me,  and  —  " 

"  I  hope  my  conjecture  is  correct,"  said  the  Canon, 
listlessly  ;  "  and  that  his  Lordship  has  yielded  to  my 
repeated  —  ha  —  solicitations  ;  and,  consulting  for  your 


552  LUKE  DELMEGE 

unique  circumstances,  advanced  you  to  a  —  ha  —  bene- 
fice ?  " 

"  It  is  not  quite  that,  sir,"  said  Luke,  feeling  his  way 
nervously.  For  now  the  drawing-room  was  opened  as 
gently  as  if  only  the  summer  breeze  had  stolen  in  and 
touched  it  with  a  light  finger.  "  It  is  a  something  that 
also,  if  you  will  pardon  me,  may  also  concern  you." 

Luke  was  never  so  nervous  before  ;  not  even  on  his 
first  student  visit  to  that  dread  presbytery.  He  thought 
the  great  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  quite  impertinent  in 
its  noisy  ticking. 

"  Alas  ! "  said  the  old  man,  feebly,  "  very  little  con- 
cerns me  now  except  that  one  great  event.  I  did 
think,  indeed, —perhaps  you  will  esteem  it  —  ha — a 
harmless  vanity  —  that  the  Bishop  might  have  —  well 
—  offered  me  the  Archdiaconate,  before  I  died.  But 
that  was  not  to  be  !     That  was  not  to  be  !  " 

"  The  diocese  thought  he  would  have  done  so,"  said 
Luke,  watching  the  door,  intently  ;  "  but  the  Bishop 
looks  mostly  to  the  young.  He  would,  however,  have 
given  any  honour  to  our  old  friend.  Father  Tracey,  I 
believe  ;  but  that  great  saint  will  have  none  of  these 
things." 

'■'  I  haven't  always  agreed  with  that  excellent  but  — 
ha  —  rather  eccentric  clergyman,"  said  the  Canon  ; 
"  but  I  dare  say  he  is  right  —  quite  right  !  " 

"  What  I  am  referring  to,  however,  sir,"  said  Luke, 
now  in  a  state  of  desperation,  "is  something  that  con- 
cerns you  even  more  deeply  —  something  that  has  been 
the  thought  and  dream  of  your  life." 

The  old  man  seemed  sunk  in  a  kind  of  stupor  ;  but 
something  in  Luke's  words  seemed  to  wake  him  up  to 
a  new  life  ;  for  he  started,  and  asked  in  an  excited 
whisper  :  — 

"  Barbara  !  " 

It  was  the  question  he  had  been  asking  for  twelve 
weary  years.  He  now  dreaded  to  hear  again  the 
eternal  answer  —  No  !  And  his  face  pleaded  eloquently 
against  it. 


REUNION  553 

"  You  know  something  ?  "  he  said.  And  Luke  said, 
"  Yes  !  " 

"  It  is  a  strange  coincidence,"  said  the  Canon,  his 
face  lighted  up  with  a  new  emotion,  "  that  just  as  you 
were  announced,  this  afternoon,  I  was  dreaming  of 
Barbara.  I  suppose  it  is  senile  weakness,  or  the  mental 
debility  arising  from  my  condition  ;  but  in  a  half-doze 
I  thought  I  —  ah  —  saw  my  dear  niece  entering  just  as 
long  ago  she  used — ha  —  sweep  into  this  drawing-room 
with  such  easy  grace  and  dignity.  Ah  me  !  those  were 
happy  days,  did  we  but  know  it.  But  you  were  about 
to  say  —  ha — my  dear  young  friend,  that  you  had  some 
news  from  15arbara.  There  is  that  —  ha  —  singular 
delusion  again.  I  fear,  my  young  friend,  that  my 
intellect  is  becoming  weak.  It's  a  singular  delusion, 
but  now  I  think,  of  course,  it  is  only  an  hallucination, 
that  there  in  that  doorway  —  ha — whai  —  my  God  !  —  " 

Ah,  yes  !  dear  old  soul,  this  time  there  was  no  delu- 
sion ;  for  a  figure  of  light  did  stand  in  tlie  dark  frame- 
work of  the  door,  clothed  all  in  white,  save  a  tiny  thread 
of  blue  ;  and  that  figure  of  light  did  tremble  all  over 
under  the  sweet,  tremulous  dread  of  shocking  with  too 
sudden  bliss  tlie  frail  old  man.  But  now  there  Avas  no 
time  for  further  concealment  :  and  with  a  little  gLad 
cry  of  delight  and  pain,  Barbara,  clothed  now  in  tlie 
Avhite,  beautiful  habit  of  the  Good  Shepherd  Nuns,  was 
at  her  uncle's  feet,  and  was  kissing  his  two  withered 
hands  passionately  amid  her  tears.  I>uke  had  done  his 
part  well  ;  and  had  quietly  gone  out,  leaving  uncle  and 
niece  togetlier. 

He  went  down  to  the  old  hut  by  the  sea-shore  to  visit 
his  old  friends,  to  sa^'  a  kind  word  to  poor  Moira,  who 
was  wasting  away  slowly  in  consumption,  and  to  ex- 
change the  account  of  his  prison  ex})eriences  witli  Mona, 
his  fellow-martvr.  When  he  returned  to  the  drawincf- 
room,  Barbara  still  sat  at  her  uncle's  feet  ;  the  old  man, 
with  a  look  of  rapture  on  his  face,  was  toying  with  her 
white  scapulary,  and  nuirmuring  something  that  sounded 
like,  Sans  tache  ! 


554  LUKE  DELMEGE 

Ah,  yes  !  spotless  and  immaculate,  and  with  all  the 
purity  of  a  fire-tried  soul,  she  had  passed  under  the 
mighty  yoke  of  Christ,  who  had  put  his  own  stole  of 
suffering  around  her.  But,  strange  to  say,  though  now 
enrolled  in  the  glorious  band  of  Virgins,  who  follow  the 
Lamb,  whithersoever  He  goeth,  and  sing  the  canticle  - 

none  other  can  sing,  there  were  hours  and  days  when  |p 
the  thought  haunted  her  with  a  sense  of  pain  and  fear, 
that  perhaps  after  all  the  day  of  trial  was  sweeter  than 
that  of  victory  ;  and  that,  like  Alexis  of  old,  it  would 
have  been  better,  or  more  glorious,  to  have  died  a 
reputed  Magdalen.  For  saintly  souls,  like  this,  are 
ambitious.  They  want  the  highest  and  the  noblest. 
The  martyrdom  must  continue  to  the  last  breath  ;  nor 
do  they  care  to  yield  up  their  souls  but  in  a  sigh  of 
pain  and  the  agony  of  dereliction.  But  then,  here  too, 
the  Supreme  Law,  God's  Will,  was  manifested  ;  and 
beneath  it  she  sheltered  herself  when  regrets  for  the 
lost  nobility  of  perpetual  pain  reproached  her.  And 
hence  when,  in  the  ecstasy  of  this  reunion,  which  was 
the  one  thing  that  nature  demanded,  the  thought  re- 
curred :  Would  it  have  been  better  otherwise  ;  or  if 
this  meeting  with  the  beloved  one  had  only  taken  place 
on  the  far,  eternal  shore  ?  she  brushed  aside  the  thought 
as  a  temptation,  and  gambolled  around  the  dear  old 
presbytery  as  a  child.  And  she  showed  her  companion- 
sister  all  the  wonders  of  the  place  —  the  dairy,  where 
she  had  —  indeed  she  had  —  made  butter  ;  and  the 
poultry  —  the  same  old  identical  Orpingtons  and  Dork- 
ings which  had  won  so  many  prizes  for  dear  uncle  ;  the 
flower-beds,  alas  !  now  not  so  neat  and  perfect  as  when 
her  gentle  hands  had  tended  them.  And  "here,"  she 
said,  ''  Father  Delmege  stood,  leaning  on  that  mantel- 
piece, the  evening  he  sang  that  fierce,  rebel  song  ;  and 
I,  a  giddy  young  girl,  raced  down  after  him  along  that 
footpath  that  runs  to  the  gate,  and  begged  him  to 
look  after  Louis  in  England  !  Ah  !  poor  Louis  !  if  he 
were  only  here  now  !  "  i 

And  the  happy  Barbara  wiped  away  a  tear  with  her 


i 


REUNION  555 

plain  cotton  handkerchief.  And  then,  after  tea,  these 
birds  should  shake  out  all  too  prematurely  their  wings 
in  the  great  clock  ;  and  the  deep  gong  tolls  out,  like  a 
bell  of  doom,  the  hour  of  six  —  and  then  —  the  parting, 
as  of  all  things  else  on  earth,  for  Luke  had  to  drive  the 
nuns  to  tlie  evening  train  for  Limerick,  where  they 
would  get  one  night's  lodging  before  going  back  to  the 
novitiate. 


CHAPTER   XLI 

A  PROFESSION   SERMON 

Then,  after  another  brief  interval,  the  great  day 
arrived,  the  day  that  was  to  witness  the  consummation 
of  great  hopes,  a  far  foreshadowing  of  the  final  Vent, 
sponsa  mea !  It  is  doubtful  whether  there  is  any 
moment  in  the  life  of  mortals  so  full  of  pure  and  per- 
fect bliss  as  that  which  marks  the  takinof  of  the  final 
vows  of  profession.  Around  the  marriage  feast  there 
hangs  some  shadow  of  fear  and  anxiety  for  a  future, 
which  at  best  is  problematical ;  and  the  eyes  that  watch 
the  happy  couple,  stepping  out,  hand  in  hand,  from  their 
fellows,  to  walk  the  ways  of  life  in  a  new  partnership 
so  exclusive  and  so  responsible,  are  filled  with  a  vague 
anxiety  and  foreboding  ;  and  the  sunlight  is  broken  in 
the  prism  of  tears.  But  at  a  profession  ceremony  there 
is  neither  parting,  nor  sorrow,  nor  fretful  fear ;  only 
the  calm  intoxication  of  a  too  great  joy,  for  the  spouse 
is  given  into  the  arms,  not  of  man,  but  of  God.  And 
hence  the  profession  morning  of  Barbara  Wilson  broke 
with  a  promise  of  a  glorious  day  ;  and  the  very  atmos- 
phere seemed  to  hum  with  Halleluiahs  —  the  glad  echoes 
of  all  the  music  that  filled  the  hearts  of  sisters,  priests, 
and  penitents.  For  the  latter  knew  now  all  the  pathetic 
heroism  of  their  former  sister  ;  and  if  they  regretfully 
parted  with  the  assumption  that  the  great  Mother  of 
God  had  been  amongst  them,  they  comforted  themselves 
in  the  assurance  that  at  least  one  of  her  saints  had  been 
their  gentle  companion  during  ten  eventful  years.  And 
it  mitigated  their  shame  and  remorse  to  think  that  a 

556 


A   PROFESSION    SERMON  557 

pure  soul  had  shared  their  lot.  Her  heroism  had  been 
a  second  absolution. 

That  little  cliapel,  then,  to  the  left  of  the  high  altar, 
was  filled  that  morning  with  a  curious,  happy,  loving, 
eager  throng  of  penitents  ;  and  the  very  idea  that  one 
of  their  number  was  about  to  be  raised  to  tlie  glory 
of  the  white  habit,  and  a  place  of  honour  in  the  choir 
stalls,  filled  all  with  a  kind  of  personal  pride  and  exulta- 
tion. And  so  they  whispered  and  watched  and  jjointed 
and  conjectured,  until  the  great  organ  rolled  out  its 
mighty  volumes  of  sound,  and  the  opening  hymn  an- 
nounced the  advent  of  tlie  Bishop  and  his  assistants. 
Then,  after  the  preliminary  ceremonies.  Mass  com- 
menced ;  and,  after  tlie  Gospel,  Luke  Delmege  knelt  for 
the  episcopal  blessing,  and  ascended  the  predella  of  tlie 
altar. 

Luke  was  by  no  means  nervous.  He  had  long  since 
acquired  so  thorough  and  perfect  a  command  of  thought 
and  utterance,  that  lie  knew  a  breakdoAvn  to  be  impos- 
sible. Yet,  he  felt  all  the  solemnity  of  the  occiision  ; 
and  he  was  about  to  depart  from  the  usual  style  of  pul- 
pit utterances,  and  pass  from  abstractions  to  the  con- 
crete facts  of  his  own  life  and  the  workings  of  his  own 
conscience.  For,  although  that  life  was  immaculate, 
and  that  conscience  unrebuking,  he  felt  that  an  amende 
was  due  to  God  and  his  own  soul  for  the  one  fault  — 
that  he  had  failed  to  grasp  his  vocation  to  soar  unto  the 
highest  :  and  as  a  penalty  of  that  infidelity  that  his  life 
had  been  dragged  "along  on  a  broken  wing."  Now, 
such  an  unveiling  is  at  all  times  embarrassing  ;  and, 
especially,  as  it  now  broke  through  the  thick  folds  of  a 
reserve  that  was  almost  liaughty,  and  sliowed  the  world, 
wlio  only  deemed  him  an  unaj)i)r()a(hable  and  coldly 
perfect  character,  an  estimate  of  self  th'^it  shrunk  into 
the  smallest  dimensions  under  the  light  of  great  humil- 
ity and  sublime  contrasts.  He  felt,  also,  that  he  had  to 
enunciate  principles  that  would  seem  so  large  for  human 
effort  as  to  appear  affected  and  extreme  by  their  very 
difficulty  ;  and  he  luul  to  synthesize  and  compare  reli- 


558  LUKE  DELMEGE 

gion  and  philosophy  in  a  manner  that  would  seem  to 
ordinary  understandings  the  outcome  of  pedantry  and 
vanity. 

He  took  for  his  text  :  — 

"  At  that  time,  Jesus  said  to  His  disciples,  *  If  any  man  will  come 
after  me,  let  him  deny  himself,  take  up  his  cross,  and  follow  me. 
Whosoever  shall  save  his  life,  shall  lose  it;  and  he  that  shall  lose  his 
life  for  my  sake,  shall  find  it.' " 

"  The  divine  peremptoriness  and  the  seeming  contra- 
diction in  these  words,"  continued  Luke,  "would  yield 
a,nother  proof,  if  proof  were  needed,  of  Christ's  divin- 
ity. 'Never  man  spake  like  this  man.'  An  earthly 
philosopher,  a  Grecian  sophist,  would  either  promise 
vast  things  to  his  followers,  as  the  adversary  tempted 
the  hungry  and  weary  One  in  the  desert  ;  or,  if  he 
affected  truth,  he  would  teach  it  in  abstractions,  and 
leave  nature  to  cut  its  easiest  path  toward  happiness. 
But  the  great  Divine  Teacher  laid  down  the  minimum 
condition  of  being  His  disciple  in  that  stern  command, 
Deny  thyself  ;  and  He  appended  the  vague,  and  appar- 
ently contradictory,  promise,  that  '  whosoever  shall  lose 
his  life,  shall  find  it.'  It  is  strange,  that  men  not  only 
were  not  scandalized  at  His  words,  but  readily  accepted 
them  as  doctrinal  truth  and  infallible  promise  ;  and 
the  half-educated  publican  and  the  totally  illiterate 
fisherman  rose  up  hastily  to  follow  a  Teacher  who  de- 
manded so  great  a  sacrifice  for  so  problematical  a  reward. 
And  stranger  still  it  is  that,  generation  after  genera- 
tion, souls  are  to  be  found  who,  fascinated  by  the  very 
arbitrariness  of  this  command,  rise  swiftly  to  the  high 
levels  of  sanctity  which  it  connotes  ;  and,  passing 
beyond  the  dictates  of  a  protesting  self-love,  or  the 
still  more  dangerous  platitudes  of  a  compromising 
world,  find  themselves  suddenly  in  that  desert  where 
the  Hand  of  their  Master  is  as  a  shelter  of  a  rock,  and 
the  sound  of  His  voice  as  the  murmur  of  running 
waters.  Such  a  sacrifice  we  are  witnessing  to-day, 
such  relinquishment  of  youthful  desires  and  ambitions. 


J 


A  PROFESSION   SERMON  559 

such  a  calm  severing  of  ties  that  bind  as  closely  as  the 
silver  cord  of  life,  such  a  renunciation  and  self-aban- 
donment, sucli  sacrificial  vows  written  and  sealed  on 
parchment  in  the  presence  of  the  King,  yet  more  truly 
written  and  sealed  with  the  heart's  blood,  as  if  to  meet 
the  theological  condition  of  destruction  and  consump- 
tion. But  there  is  a  peculiar  and  individual  feature  in 
the  circumstances  of  to-day's  immolation  that  lends  to 
it  a  special  significance,  and  from  which  I  shall  be  par- 
doned if  I  deduce  a  special  meaning,  and  perliaps  a 
wider  and  far-reacliing  application.  You  will  have 
noticed  that  my  text  implies,  not  only  the  idea  of  Re- 
nunciation, but  also  the  idea  of  Sacrilice.  '  Deny  th}-- 
self  !  '  '  Lose  thyself  !  '  This  is  the  command.  In 
the  great  generality  of  religious  professions,  the  first 
precept  ah:)ne  is  insisted  upon  ;  the  latter  idea  of  sacri- 
fice, particularly  vicarious  sacrifice,  seldom  enters. 
The  Church  deems  the  absoluteness  of  the  former  as 
embracing  and  containing  the  latter.  But,  in  the  pres- 
ent instance,  it  is  at  least  a  ])eculiar  feature,  that  the 
life  of  vicarious  sacrifice  should  be  terminated  bv  vows 
of  renunciation  ;  and  that  the  latter,  which  generally 
denote  the  incipience  of  a  life  of  self-denial,  should,  in 
this  case,  mark  a  tei'minution  of  a  sacrifice  so  great, 
that,  like  the  connnund  to  the  patriarch  of  old,  only  the 
Supreme  Will  couhl  impose  it  on  one  of  its  best-beloved 
creatures.  It  happened  thus.  The  good  Sister  will 
j)ardon  the  details,  because  they  show  how  steadily  and 
invisibly  God's  hand  is  ever  moving  through  His 
creation. 

Here  Luke  narrated  all  the  details  of  Louis'  errors. 
and  liis  sistt'r's  devotion,  and  contiiiucMl  :  — 

"Tiicn  the  soul  of  the  beloved  one  was  in  great  [leiil. 
His  life  was  doomed.  The  danger  of  eternal  damna- 
tion, from  being  remote,  became  proximate.  Nothing 
but  Omni[)otenee  was  between  that  soul  and  hell.  In 
the  mighty  agony  of  a  sister's  soul,  whieii  alone  seemed 
to  yearn  after  the  lost  one,  a  sudden  inspiration  dawned. 


^60  LUKE  DELMEGE 

That  soul  had  just  shuddered,  in  the  involuntary  shrink- 
ing  of  pure  minds,  from  the  very  name  that,  if  symbolical 
of  love,  is  also  suggestive  of  forgiven  sin.  And  the  Most 
High,  in  His  secret  and  ineffable  designs,  decided  that 
this  should  be  the  sacrifice.  The  price  of  the  brother's 
soul  was  to  be  tlie  sinless  shame  of  the  sister  ;  he  was 
to  be  saved  through  the  voluntary  ignominy  of  an  im- 
maculate and  spotless  victim.  It  is  the  reflection  in 
miniature  of  that  mighty  oblation  made  by  our  great 
Brother,  Christ  ;  just  as  this  latter  was  foreshadowed, 
almost  in  the  words  I  am  using,  by  the  greatest  of  the 
Hebrew  prophets.  There  was,  of  course,  the  dread, 
the  human  trembling  before  the  altar  ;  but  then  the 
soul  spoke  through  the  firm  will ;  the  sacrifice  was 
accepted,  the  brother's  soul  miraculously  snatched  from 
the  flames  ;  and  the  sister,  unknown  to  all  but  God, 
passed  from  the  bright  world  into  the  hiddenness  of 
this  asylum  ;  and  here  lived,  to  all  outer  appearance,  a 
Magdalen,  with  all  the  outer  marks  of  humiliation,  her 
sinlessness  only  known  to  God  and  the  good  priest  who 
represented  Him. 

"  Whilst  all  this  was  in  progress,  another  life  ran  on 
in  parallel  lines  ;  but  alas  !  with  what  a  chaos  between 
them  !  A  young  priest  had  rejected  a  similar  inspira- 
tion to  a  life  of  absolute  sacrifice  communicated  at  the 
moment  of  his  ordination,  had  descended  from  the 
heroic  to  the  commonplace  ;  and  there,  his  instincts, 
still  active  and  alive,  were  fascinated  by  the  very  watch- 
words on  the  lips  of  the  world,  which  were  the  daily 
maxims,  reduced  to  daily  practice,  of  the  saints.  '  Re- 
nunciation," 'sacrifice,' '  abandonment  of  self,' '  the  inter- 
ests of  the  race,'  '  the  sacred  calls  of  Humanity,'  here 
were  words  forever  ringing  in  his  ears,  and  calling, 
calling  to  some  liigh,  mystic  life,  far  removed  from 
selfish  ease  or  the  cravings  of  ambition.  Alas  !  it  took 
many  years  to  teach  him  how  hollow  was  it  all —  that 
there  was  no  God  in  Humanity,  except  the  God  who 
embraced  Humanity  to  raise  it  almost  to  the  Godhead ; 


A  PROFESSION   SERMON"  561 

nor  were  the  sublime  doctrines  of  renunciation  and 
sacrifice  practised  except  by  the  lowly  followers  of  tlie 
one  Divine  Man.  Yet,  this  was  the  eternal  craving  of 
the  liunian  soul  ;  and  as  the  young  priest  moved  along 
in  the  painful  path  of  wisdom,  he  saw  how  human  phi- 
losophy, with  a  dark  lantern  in  its  hand,  went  painfully 
groping  along  the  tortuous  mazes  of  the  human  mind, 
to  emerge  in  the  full  light  of  the  Gospel,  yet  witli  dark- 
ened eyes  ;  for  the  sublime  word  '  llenuncialion  '  he 
found  in  the  last  note  in  the  music  of  the  greatest  of 
modern  poets  ;  and  the  divine  contradiction,  '  lie  that 
will  lose  liis  life  shall  save  it,'  he  found  to  be  tlie  ulti- 
mate of  one  of  the  greatest  of  modern  philosophers. 
But  what  have  ideas,  however  suljlime,  to  do  with  the 
conduct  of  modern  life?  Action,  and  men  of  action, 
rule  tlie  modern  world.  Ideas  ruled  the  vast  worlds  of 
Oriental  mysticism,  until  they  culminated  in  tlie  sub- 
lime realities  of  the  Christian  reli<2U(»n  ;  l)Ut  the  Oeci- 
dental  bias  is  toward  materialism,  and  its  one  great 
dogma  —  the  Eternal  I.  I>ut  that  which  was  so 
familiar  to  the  sages  of  old,  which  is  found  in  labour  and 
much  pain  by  the  great  moderns,  who  agonize  in  tlie 
birth-throes  of  monsters,  is  easily  grasped  by  the  little 
ones  who  seek  wisdom  in  simplicity  ;  and  are  fain  to 
follow  as  guides  those  who,  divinely  ordained,  teach, 
not  in  tlie  jjcrsuasive  words  of  human  Avisdom,  but  in 
the  direct  interpretation  of  plain  language,  more  than 
philosophy  can  discern,  or  learning  fathom,  or  fancy 
conceive. 

"  And  so,  the  young  priest,  coming  back  to  his  native 
land,  dreamed  he  had  a  message  to  his  race.  He  would 
inaugurate  a  new  era  ;  he  would  bring  his  generation 
into  touch  with  all  modern  ideas  of  [>rogress  ;  he  would 
introduce  a  new  civilization  in  place  of  an  old  and 
effete  system.  The  idea  was  a  generous  one  —  only  it 
rested  on  a*  wrong  jirinciple.  Or  rather  it  sought  to 
build  without  princii)le  —  the  great  underlying  prin- 
ciple of  man's  dualism  —  ideas  and  action,  matter  and 
2o 


562  LUKE   DELMEGE 

form,  soul  and  body  ;  each  with  its  interests,  each  with 
its  destiny.  He  had  heard  it  said,  and  said  with  some 
show  of  authority  :  '  Seek  men's  souls  through  their 
bodies  !  Make  a  happy  people  ;  and  you  make  them 
holy  !  Sanctity  follows  earthly  prosperity  ;  and  in 
riches  are  to  be  found  the  secrets  of  great  grace  ! ' 
He  hardly  believed  it.  Yet  he  would  make  the  experi- 
ment. He  was  warned  :  This  people  must  create  their 
own  civilization.  There  is  no  use  in  appealing  to 
purely  material  and  mercenary  principles.  If  the  spir- 
itual air-ship  of  Irish  aspirations  must  be  anchored  in  a 
kind  of  mild  materialism,  remember  always  that  the 
latter  is  but  an  adjunct.  And  so  the  people  rejected  at 
once  his  suggestion  to  move  on  to  happiness  in  the 
lines  of  modern  progress.  To  his  plea  for  prudence 
they  answered,  Providence  ;  for  human  foresight,  they 
placed  divine  omniscience  ;  for  thrift,  charity  ;  for 
advancement,  humility ;  for  selfishness,  generosity  ; 
until  he  began  to  feel  he  was  clipping  the  wings  of  spir- 
its, and  bringing  down  to  the  gross  earth  souls  destined 
for  the  empyrean.  He  then  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  the  problem,  How  to  conserve  his  race,  and  their 
old-fashioned  ideals  at  the  same  time  ? 

"  In  searching  for  this,  he  stumbled  into  an  error,  and 
found  a  solution.  He  thought  it  was  a  first  principle 
that  nations  work  out  their  own  destinies,  and  that 
character  forces  it  way  to  conquest.  He  made  no 
allowance  for  a  nation's  environments,  for  dread  sur- 
roundings through  which  no  purely  human  energy  can 
cut  a  path  to  long-deferred,  ever-vanishing,  yet  still 
realizable,  ideals.  He  saw  the  confirmation  of  this  idea, 
he  thought,  under  his  own  eyes,  in  his  own  native 
place  —  the  Ireland  which  poets  have  dreamed  of,  and 
for  which  patriots  have  died.  Under  the  vivifying 
power  of  a  great  personality,  the  people  rose  up  to  seize 
the  possibilities  within  their  reach  ;  and  moving  on  to 
great  spirituality,  they  seized  at  the  same  time  every 
opportunity  of  advancing  themselves  materially.  And 
they  succeeded.     Whilst  all  around  was  a  desert,  here 


A   PROFESSION   SERMON  563 

was  a  land  flowing  with  milk  and  honey  ;  and  the 
dwellers  on  the  barren  mountains  looked  down  with 
envy  on  the  smiling  plains  of  Arcady.  Alas  !  the  ele- 
ment of  permanency,  tlie  element  of  security,  was  ab- 
sent ;  and  one  day,  under  a  touch  of  evil,  all  the  beauty 
and  happiness  vanished  in  smoke  and  flame  and  ruin. 
And,  as  the  two  illusions  disappeared  —  that  of  Irehind, 
built  from  its  ruins  on  jjurely  material  and  selfish  prin- 
ciples ;  and  that  of  an  Ireland,  Ijuilt  without  the  foun- 
dation of  security  and  independence,  the  young  priest 
M^oke  uj)  suddenly  to  the  vision  of  his  country,  develop- 
ing under  new  and  stable  conditions  her  traditional 
ideas  ;  and  becoming  in  the  face  of  a  spurious  and 
unstable  civilization  rocked  to  its  foundations  l)y  revo- 
lution, a  new  commonwealth  of  Christ.  The  possibility 
of  sucli  an  event  had  been  vaguely  hinted  at  by  priests, 
who  evidently  were  struggling  to  evolve  coherent  ideas 
from  a  mass  of  sensations  and  instincts,  rigliteous  and 
just,  but  j-et  unformed.  It  was  foreshadowed  by  the 
manner  in  which  the  people,  luitrained  and  illiterate, 
groped  after  and  grasped  the  highest  principles  of 
Christian  civilization  ;  it  was  foretold  by  tlie  energy 
with  which  men  contemned  the  mere  acquisition  of 
wealth,  and  felt  asliamed  of  possessing  it  ;  it  was  out- 
lined in  the  simple,  human  lives,  with  all  their  S[)iirtau 
severity  toward  themselves,  and  all  their  divine  benefl- 
cence  toward  others.  It  took  shape  in  the  sharp  and 
violent  contrasts  presented  by  the  fierce  rivalry  for 
wealth  that  animates  the  citizens  of  the  world's  great 
metropolis,  ami  the  milder,  yet  not  less  energetic,  emu- 
lation for  grace  that  was  witnessed  in  our  own  capital 
—  a  contrast  as  great  as  that  which  distinguished  tlie 
bandit  of  tlie  A})ennines,  surrounded  with  barliaric 
pomp,  from  'the  poor  man  of  Assisi.'  And  finally,  it 
was  personified  in  the  example  of  a  humble  and  hidilen 
priest,  who  long  ago  had  denuded  himself  of  all  things 
lor  Christ's  sake,  and  chosen  all  that  was  lowly  and 
hard  to  human  nature,  before  all  that  was  pleasant  and 
attractive  ;  and  the  still  moi'c  picturesque  example  of  a 


564  LUKE   DELMEGE 

young  girl  who  voluntarily  embraced  humility  and 
suffering,  and  found  in  her  cross  the  satisfaction  of  all 
earthly  desire,  the  perfection  of  all  earthly  happiness. 
It  was  the  old  story,  wliich  we  read  so  often,  of  days 
far  distanced  from  ours  by  time  and  change  —  of  souls 
who  brushed  with  the  tip  of  their  wings  the  fire  of 
Hell,  and  then  soared  aloft  even  unto  Paradise. 

"  There  can  be  no  question,"  continued  Luke,  "  but 
that  such  a  life  of  heroism  and  self-sacrifice  is  closely 
symbolical  of  our  beloved  country.  It  argues  a  disbelief 
in  the  divine  economy  to  suppose  that  our  martyrdom 
of  seven  hundred  years  was  the  accident  of  human 
events,  uncontrolled  except  by  their  intrinsic  possibili- 
ties and  ultimate  developments.  That  this  long  cycle 
of  suffering  is  to  close  even  now  is  as  certain  as  that 
our  young  postulant  has  put  off  the  robes  of  penance 
and  humiliation,  and  put  on  the  garments  of  gladness. 
Her  future  it  is  easy  to  forecast.  She  will  move  down 
the  valleys  of  life  with  an  eternal  song  of  love  and 
gratitude  in  her  heart,  passing  from  hour  to  hour,  from 
thought  to  thought,  from  deed  to  deed,  and  gathering 
from  each  some  sweetness  that  will  be  dropped  in  the 
bitterness  of  chalices  which  some  have  yet  to  drink. 
It  is  as  easy  to  forecast  the  destiny  of  Ireland.  She 
will  never  adopt  the  modern  idea  of  placing  all  human 
happiness,  and  therefore  all  human  effort,  in  the  desire 
of  purely  natural  splendour,  and  sink  down  into  a  nation 
of  money-grubbers  and  pleasure-seekers,  becoming  at 
last,  not  an  island  of  strength  and  sorrow,  but  a  Cyprus 
for  voluptuousness,  and  a  Lydia  for  effeminacy.  But 
she  will  strike  the  happy  mean,  and  evolve  her  own 
civilization  by  conserving  her  ideals,  whilst  seeking 
after  the  practical.  For  it  is  certain  that  the  traditions, 
the  thoughts  the  instincts,  the  desires,  the  very  passions, 
of  this  people  tend  towards  the  supernatural.  And 
this  must  be  the  germinal  idea  —  the  primary  and  pal- 
mary principle  in  her  future  development — the  corner- 
stone of  the  mighty  building  which  the  hands  of  her 


A   PROFESSION    SERMON  565 

children  are  tingling  to  raise,  the  keystone  in  that  Arch 
of  Triumph,  beneath  which  lier  crowned  and  garlanded 
heroes  will  pass  unto  the  jubilee  of  her  resurrection. 

"  Sister  Barbara,  I  make  no  apology  for  having  made 
your  life  a  symbol  of  your  country's  destiny,  and  not 
merely  a  subject  of  a  barren  discourse.  I  make  bold 
to  continue  the  parallel  to  the  end.  I  interpret  your 
thoughts  very  faintly,  if  I  do  not  perceive  that  now 
and  again,  whilst  accepting  the  decision  of  the  Supreme 
Will,  your  thoughts  revert  to,  and  linger  lovingly  upon, 
the  hours  you  spent  with  your  crucifixion.  I  never 
doubted  that,  even  on  the  sunlit  morning  of  tlie  Resur- 
rection, such  generous  souls  as  John  and  ^Magdalen  did 
revert  with  some  tender  longing  to  the  darkness  and 
gloom  and  sorrow  of  Calvary,  and  the  love  that  went 
forth  to  the  agonized  One,  and  flowed  back  in  a  stream 
of  sanctity  to  their  own  hearts.  Perhap:^,  indeed,  you 
have  sometimes  dreamed  that  it  might  havc  been  greater 
and  more  noble,  if  you  had  borne  your  shame  even  unto 
tile  eternal  o'ates,  and  allowed  the  hands  of  Christ  alone 
to  take  from  your  liead  the  crown  of  thorns,  and  i»lace 
thereon  the  golden  fillet  of  His  love.  Such  ideas  are 
the  heritage  of  your  race.  I,  too,  shared  them  once. 
]^)iit,  led  by  purely  utilitarian  ideas,  I  flung  aside  the 
call  to  heroism,  and  descended  to  the  L'ommon[)lace. 
Let  wise  teachers  beware  of  brinsring  down  the  mind  of 
tlie  entire  nation  to  a  conunon  level  of  purely  natiiial 
and)ition  and  purely  materialistic  success.  However 
necessary  for  the  masses  such  eflorts  may  be  to  save 
the  race  from  extinction,  it  is  not  tlie  specific  genius  of 
our  people.  That  soars  higher :  and  material  prosper- 
ity must  not  be  the  ultimate  goal  of  our  race;  but  only 
the  basis  of  the  higher  life.  The  world  was  never  so 
nuich  in  need  of  thinkers  and  saints  as  at  present.  It 
never  needed  so  much  to  see  the  embodiment  of  the 
positive  teaching  of  Christ,  not  the  nebulous  reflection 
of  that  teaching  in  tlie  wisdom  of  latter-day  philosopliy, 
as  now.      One  such  example  as  that   which  we   have 


566  LUKE   DELMEGE 

before  us  to-day  would  be  a  powerful  lever  in  lifting 
up  the  ideas  of  the  world  from  the  rut  into  which  they 
have  fallen ;  and  you  might  have  a  thousand  such  ex- 
amples amongst  so  generous  a  people  if  the  higher  life, 
with  its  struggles  and  glories,  were  placed  before  them. 
Nor  have  I  the  least  doubt,  that,  like  the  gentle  regrets 
after  her  cross  that  mingle  with  happier  feelings  in  the 
heart  of  the  professed  Sister  of  to-day,  when  the  Resur- 
rection day  shall  have  dawned  for  Ireland,  when  her 
valleys  are  ringing  with  music,  and  her  exiled  children 
have  come  back,  bearing  the  many  and  beautiful  sheaves 
garnered  in  the  harvests  of  the  world,  many  of  her 
chosen  souls  will  look  back  with  regretful  eyes  on  the 
days  of  her  gloom  and  martyrdom  ;  and,  escaping  from 
the  Hosannas  and  the  palms,  will  ascend  her  lofty  moun- 
tains and  create  there  once  more  Golgothas  of  vicarious 
suffering  for  the  entire  race.  For  unto  the  end  of  time 
there  will  be  >in,  and  sins  demand  retribution  and  atone- 
ment, and  it  -5  not  the  sinner  but  the  saint  that  makes 
it.  And  men,  to  the  end  of  time,  will  be  consumed  with 
selfish  desires  ;  and  selfishness  must  find  its  constant 
corrective  in  Renunciation.  And  where,  in  all  the 
wide  earth,  can  this  sublime  philosophy  of  Christ  be 
practised,  if  not  here  ?  And  where  shall  the  divine 
contradiction.  Lose,  that  you  may  gain  ;  Give,  that  you 
may  get ;  Die,  that  all  may  live  ;  —  be  verified,  if  not 
amongst  the  people  that  has  held  its  hands  to  heaven  in 
an  agony  of  supplication  for  twice  three  hundred  years  ? 
Where  shall  the  fatal  sin  of  self  be  extinguished,  if  not 
amongst  the  race  which  has  given  to  the  world  in  its 
apostles  and  martyi-s  the  highest  examples  of  divine 
altruism?  And  where  shall  the  final  law  of  love  be 
established,  if  not  where  all  that  is  holy  and  most  pure 
stoops  to  all  that  is  sordid  and  stained  ;  and  blends,  in 
the  alchemy  of  charity,  sin  and  purity,  shame  and  pity, 
so  perfectly,  that,  as  in  the  example  before  us  to-day, 
men  fail  to  discern  beneath  the  outward  shows  of  life 
the  sinner  and  the  saint,  the  fallen  and  the  unfallen, 
the  lambs  that  never  wandered  from  the  fold,  and  the 


A   PROFESSION    SERMON  567 

sheep  that  strayed  in  the  forlorn  and  unlighted  deserts 
of  Sin  and  Death  ?  " 

When  the  ceremony  was  over  Luke  sought  tlie  soli- 
tude of  the  convent  grounds,  to  calm  the  emotion  under 
which  he  had  laboured.  He  cared  little  what  verdict 
would  be  passed  on  that  sermon.  Me  only  knew  that 
he  wished  to  reveal  himself — to  make  a  clear,  noble 
confession  of  his  own  shortcomings  ;  and  he  felt  he  had 
only  half  succeeded.  He  knew  he  dared  not  liave  spoken 
more  plainly,  lest  lie  should  shock  sensibilities  too  deli- 
cate and  tender  not  to  be  respected  ;  yet  lie  also  frit 
that  he  had  wrapped  up  his  thoughts  so  well  in  a  cloud 
of  words  that  his  feelings  were  but  half  revealed. 

And  this  was  really  the  case.  For  at  the  de/rinnr, 
very  various  were  the  opinions  expressed  about  th^  ser- 
mon. One  said  it  was  all  "  rhetoric,"  a  word  that  has 
come  to  mean  uiiutterable  things  in  Ireland,  i-'atln  r 
Tracey,  who  looked  (juite  spruce  in  the  newly  dyed 
coat,  called  over  Sister  Eulalie,  whose  eyes  were  red 
from  weeping,  and  asked  her  in  a  whisper  :  — 

"That  was  a  grand  sermon,  my  dear,  lint  my  poor 
brains  could  not  follow  it.  What  was  it  all  al)out  / 
Why,  my  child,  you  have  been  crying  I  Ciod  bless  my 
sold,  crying,  and  on  such  a  day  !  " 

Sister  Eulalie  answered  not  ;  l>ut  went  away  weeping 
all  the  more. 

Matthew  O'Shaughnessy,  who,  as  a  great  benefactor 
to  the  convent,  luul  always  the  privilege  of  an  invita- 
tion to  these  ceremonies,  said  to  a  priest  across  the 
table  :  — 

"  That  was  the  grandest  discoorse  I  ever  hard,  by  me 
friend.  Father  ]-,uke." 

''  What  was  it  all  about  ?"  said  the  i)riest,  without  a 
smile. 

••Eh?  About?"  said  Matthew,  bewildered.  "Tell 
him  what  'twas' about,  Mary.  Fm  a  little  hard  of 
hearing." 

But  Mary,  with  her  woman's  quick  intuition,  divined 


568  LUKE   DELMEGE 

how  matters   stood  ;    and   said,  with  a  good   deal   of 
dignity  :  — 

•'  What  would  it  be  about,  but  the  young  lady's 
profession  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Matthew,  who,  as  the  Bishop  en- 
tered, stood  up  in  an  attitude  of  adoration,  and  sought, 
in  a  most  humble,  deprecatory  manner,  to  catch  the 
Bishop's  eye. 

Then  Barbara  came  in,  led  by  the  Mistress  of  Novices, 
and  passed  up  along  the  ranks  of  visitors  to  kiss  the 
episcopal  ring,  and  get  once  more  the  episcopal  blessing. 
Then,  turning  swiftly  around,  she  saw,  for  the  first  time 
in  twelve  long  years,  her  father's  face.  It  was  now 
framed  in  white,  and  deeply  furrowed  by  care  and  the 
labours  that  are  needed  for  ambition.  It  was  stern, 
too  ;  for  all  the  explanations  made  by  the  Mother  Pro- 
vincial and  the  priests  failed  to  convince  the  man  of  the 
world  that  there  was  not  a  terrible  cruelty  and  injustice 
inflicted  upon  his  child.  But  something  —  the  swish 
of  her  white  habit,  the  rattle  of  lier  beads,  tlie  swift 
grace  of  her  movements,  or  the  radiance  that  shone 
from  her  features,  unnerved  him  ;  and,  with  a  little  sob 
of  pleasure,  he  clasped  his  child  to  his  heart,  and  kissed 
her  face  before  all  the  people.  Lady  Wilson  was  more 
conventional  and  reserved.  She  felt  she  had  been  ill- 
used  ;  but,  in  a  spirit  of  Christian  meekness,  she  was 
willing  to  forgive.  Each  priest  stood  up,  as  Barbara 
approached,  and  touched  her  hand  reverently.  She  sat 
for  a  long  time  near  Father  Tracey,  who  was  much  em- 
barrassed at  the  honour,  and  said,  "  God  bless  me  !  " 
several  times. 

When  the  guests  were  dispersing  in  the  great  hall 
outside,  the  Bishop  said  aloud  :  — 

"Where  is  Father  Delmege?  I  missed  Father  Del- 
mege I  " 

Luke  was  found  with  some  difficulty,  and  came  forward. 

"  That  was  a  fine  sermon,  Luke,"  said  the  Bishop. 

"  Thank  you,  my  Lord,"  said  Luke.  Then,  with  a 
little  malice  :  — 


I 

I 


A   PROFESSION    SERMON  569 

"I  hope  there  was  no  latent  heresy  in  it?  " 

"  No.  But  don't  print  it ;  or  some  fellow  will  ferret 
out  something  heterodox  by  the  aid  of  a  dictionary.  By 
the  way,  here's  a  letter  for  you.  You  needn't  read  it 
till  you  return  home.  Good-day  !  Come  see  me,  when- 
ever you  are  in  the  city." 

"  He'll  be  in  St.  John's  in  a  week,"  said  Matthew, 
winking  at  Mary.      "  Tliat's  his  appintment." 

"•And  St.  John's  isn't  half  good  enough  for  him," 
said  iNIary. 

But  Matthew  for  once  was  wrong.  It  was  not  to  a 
curacy,  but  to  a  benefice  that  Luke  was  now  appointed 

—  to  the  neat,  compact  little  parish  where  he  spent  the 
few  remaining  years  of  his  life.  Here,  divesting  him- 
self of  all  things,  he  lived  the  life  of  an  anchorite — a 
grave,  gentle,  loving  man  ;  and  happy  in  having  nothing 
and  possessing  all  things.  Revered  and  beloved  b}-  his 
own  people,  it  is  not  surprising  that  he  acquired  the 
character  of  being  somewhat  eccentric  among  his  breth- 
ren. But  this  he  did  not  mind.  He  had  found  peace 
by  abstracting  himself  from  passing  and  fading  things, 
and  fixing  his  thoughts  on  the  unfading  and  eternal. 
One  little  luxury,  as  we  have  seen,  he  allowed  himself 

—  that  of  lookijig  out,  as  a  disinterested,  if  perplexed, 
spectator,  over  "  the  beautiful  madhouse  of  the  earth  " 
and 

]\Iii.sinp;  the  woes  of  men, 
Tlie  ways  of  fate,  the  (loctrines  of  the  books, 
The  lessons  of  tlie  creatures  of  the  brake, 
The  secrets  of  the  silence  whence  all  come, 
The  secrets  of  tlie  gloom  whereto  all  go, 
The  life  which  lies  between,  like  that  arch  flung 
From  cloml  to  cloud  across  tlie  sky,  which  hath 
Mists  for  its  niasonrv  and  vapoury  piers, 
Melting  to  void  again  which  was  so  fair 
With  sapphire  hues,  garnet,  and  chr\soprase. 


CHAPTER   XLII 
AFTERMATH 

Here  we  bid  farewell  to  Luke.  But  some  readers  of 
his  life's  history  may  yet  feel  a  kindly  interest  in  the 
souls  with  whom  he  was  brought  into  most  frequent 
contact,  or  who  exercised,  consciously  or  unconsciously, 
some  influence  upon  him.  With  most  of  these  the  author 
was  obliged,  in  the  course  of  his  work,  to  enter  upon 
terms  of  friendly  intimacy,  in  order  to  glean  the  particu- 
lars that  he  has  ventured  to  offqr  to  the  public.  A 11,  with- 
out exception,  had  a  kindly  word  for  poor  Luke ;  most 
gave  his  memory  the  more  eloquent  tribute  of  a  tear. 

Father  Martin,  at  first  very  crusty  and  rather  abrupt, 
probably  from  great  sorrow,  developed  into  a  most  kindly, 
and,  needless  to  say,  most  intelligent  adviser  and  editor. 
That  little  parlour  at  Sea  view  Cottage  became  quite 
familiar  to  the  author ;  for  here  they  discussed,  argued, 
reasoned,  planned  the  scope  and  argument  of  the  book. 
Tiny  and  Tony,  too,  now  pretty  grown,  became  intelli- 
gent and  decidedly  interesting  guides.  It  was  they 
who  led  the  narrator  to  the  sloping  ledge  of  rock  where 
Father  M^ade  had  heard  the  cry  of  Allua!  across  the 
waters  ;  and  there,  yes,  indeed  I  there  was  tlie  identical 
curl  upon  the  placid  bosom  of  the  great  estuary,  where 
the  jealous  sea  challenges  its  mighty  invader. 

"  I  can  swim  to  the  current,"  said  Tony,  with  a 
triumphant  glance  at  his  sister. 

"  You  got  cramps,  and  you'd  be  drowned  only  for 
me,"  said  Tiny. 

"  I  can  ride  a  cycle,  standing  on  the  saddle,"  said 
Tony,  unabashed. 

570 


AFTERMATH  571 

"  An'  I  can  ride  side-saddle  with  one  pedal,"  said 
Tiny. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  I  interposed ;  "  I  shall 
stroRoiy  recommend  your  guardian  to  apprentice  the 
two  of  you  to  the  next  third-class  circus  that  honours 
Ardavine  with  a  visit."  I  meant  to  be  sarcastic;  but 
the  project  was  warmly  taken  up. 

"  Oh  !   the  very  thing,"  said  Tiny. 

"  I  sliall  ride  bareback,"  said  Tony. 

"  I  can  jump  through  a  paper  hoop,"  said  Tiny. 

"  You  tried,  and  fell,  and  broke  your  nose,  and  cried, 
like  a  girl,"  said  Tony. 

"  Tony,"  I  said,  "  this  is  unchivalric  and  unfraternal. 
Let  us  return." 

I  did  not  visit  the  Canon.  I  sliared  Luke's  nervous- 
ness ;  but,  unlike  Luke,  I  failed  to  conquer  it.  But  I 
saw  Father  Cussen.  He  is  now  quite  entlinsiastic  about 
his  })ari.sh  priest.  We  visited  the  ruined  ccAtage  of  Lis- 
nalee  together.  It  is  not  a  very  unusual  sight  in  Ireland 
—  that  gaping  ruin,  the  pointed  gables,  the  nettles,  the 
fire-scorched  hearth,  alas  !  which  will  never  shed  a  ruddy 
glow  upon  happy  faces  again.  Far  down  on  the  rocky 
shore  is  the  fishernuin's  cal)in,  where  ^b)na  still  lives  ; 
and,  amidst  all  changes  of  death  and  ruin,  there  is  the 
eternal  sea  I  Calmly  it  sleeps  under  the  eye  of  God. 
It  is  one  of  the  many  tilings  that  make  you  detest  tlie 
doctrine  of  evolution,  and  lly  back  to  a  direct  Crea- 
tion: "God  also  said:  Let  the  waters  that  are  under 
the  heaven  be  gathered  togetlier  in  one  })hice.  And  it 
was  so  done.  And  the  gathering  together  of  the  waters 
He  called  Seas.      .Vnd  (iod  saw  that  it  was  goo(L" 

"  Will  the  McNamaras  ever  come  back,  do  vou  think?" 
I  asked. 

"  They  certainly  will,"  Fatlu-r  (  ussen  re})lied.  "  And 
what  is  more  —  we'll  liave  the  old  state  of  things  back 
again,  as  sure  as  God  is  just,  when  landlordism  is  dead 
and  —  " 

"Hush!"  I  said,  "I  should  have  to  put  that  down 
to  be  loyal  to  my  readers ;  and  it  would  sound  Ijadly. 


572  LUKE   DELMEGE 

However,  you  made  the  evil  thing  abstract  and  imper- 
sonal." 

"They  say  the  ghost  of  old  Mike  Delmege  haunts 
this  place,"  he  continued-  "  He  has  been  seen  wander- 
ing around  here  on  moonlight  nights,  his  gray  hair 
tossed  wildly  on  his  shoulders,  as  on  that  awful  day. 
I'd  wish  he'd  go  to  Paris,  and  haunt  the  silken  curtains 
of  that  —  " 

"  Is  Mona  married  ?  "  I  interrupted  charitably. 

"  Not  yet.  She  has  had  a  hundred  offers,  since  she 
proved  such  a  little  heroine  ;  but  she  says  she'll  never 
marry  until  '■  the  ould  stock  '  come  back  to  their  right- 
ful inheritance." 

"  A  faithful  little  soul,"  I  said. 

"  Yes.  But  she  thought  poor  Luke  was  entirely  too 
polite  to  the  magistrates  at  that  trial.  They  were  all 
expecting  a  tremendous  philippic  from  him." 

"  That  was  hardly  his  way,"  I  replied. 

"  Of  course  not.  I  think  he  was  right  ;  though  I 
am  not  quite  sure  if  I  would  have  taken  it  so  tamely," 
said  Father  Cussen. 

I  had  a  most  delightful  interview  with  Dr.  Keatinge. 
He  was  one  of  those  beautiful  old  priests  who  see  good 
in  everything  and  every  one  —  a  perfect  optimist,  as  if 
he  had  been  transported  hither  from  one  of  those  de- 
lightful planets  on  which  sister  suns  are  ever  shining. 
There  was  no  Night  for  him,  nor  blackness,  nor  sin. 
All  was  Day,  and  light,  and  grace.  He  was  enthusias- 
tic about  Luke. 

"  A  perfect  character,  my  dear  young  friend  —  a 
noble  character,  with  eternal  aspirations  after  what  is 
True  and  Right  and  Just." 

"  But  a  little  perplexed  ?  "  I  said. 

"  All  good  men  are  perplexed,"  he  replied,  "  until 
they  make  up  their  minds  to  one  fact  —  the  necessary 
imperfection  of  all  human  things,  until  complemented 
by  the  perfection  of  the  divine.  Then  all  is  right.  It 
was  the  impatience  at  imperfection  that  annoyed  him. 
But  he  was  tolerant,  exceedingly  tolerant,  for  example, 
with  that  eccentric  youth." 


AFTERMATH  573 

"  John  ?  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Doctor,  a  little  disturbed. 

"  Wliat  has  become  of  that  hopeful  ?  "  I  cried. 

''  1  have  him,"  said  the  Doctor  ;  and  I  thought  his 
face  fell. 

1  was  silent.  After  a  little  while,  the  good  old  priest, 
looking  shyly  at  me,  said  in  a  rallier  embarrassed  way, 
"  Perliaps  you  would  like  to  see  him  ?  " 

"  By  all  manner  of  means,"  I  replied.  "■  Is  he  mar- 
ried ?  " 

"  He  is,"  said  the  Doctor. 

John  came  in  reluctantly  from  the  garden,  when  told 
he  was  wanted.  He  never  liked  to  be  "wanted."  It 
foreboded  trouble  or  anxiety.  His  face  Avore  that  fur- 
tive, friglitencd,  suspicious  look,  that  used  to  make 
l>uke  wild  ;  l)ut  it  cleared  off  into  the  sunshine  of  a 
smile  when  he  found  it  was  not  a  policeman,  but  only 
an  old  acquaintance  that  desired  to  see  him.  Never- 
theless, lie  did  not  lay  aside  his  habitual  caution. 

''  How  are  you,  John?  Yni  glad  to  see  you  well?" 
I  said,  hiilding  out  my  hand. 

John  touched  my  hand  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 

-'  Vm  ver}-  well,  yer  reverence,"  said  John. 

"  And  so  you're  married  ?  "  I  said. 

"  I  dun  know,  yer  reverence,"  said  John. 

"What,  you  scoundrel."  J  said,  "you  don't  know 
whetlier  you're  married  or  not?" 

"  Begor,  I  believe  I  am,  yer  reverence,"  he  said, 
smiling  sheepishly,  and  scratching  his  heail. 

"  jNIary,  of  course  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Begor,  I  l)elieve  it  is,  yer  reverence,"  he  said,  witli 
a  grin. 

"  I  liope  you're  steady  now  with  tliese  responsibilities," 
I  conjectured. 

"  Oh,  I  am,  yer  reverence,"  he  replied.  "■  She'll  tell 
you  herself." 

"You  know  how  anxious  FathiT  Luke  was  about 
you,"  1  said  :  "  and  how  glad  he'd  be  to  know  you 
were  doing  well." 


574  LUKE  DELMEGE 

"  Ah,  thin,  manny's  the  good  advice  the  poor  masther 
giv  me,"  said  John,  with  just  a  little  emotion,  "  if  only 
I  tuk  it^"  he  added. 

"  How  am  I  to  find  out  Mary's  house  ?  "  I  inquired. 
"  I  must  see  her." 

"  Oh,  'tis  aisy  enough,"  said  John,  with  a  broad  grin  ; 
"you'll  know  it  among  all  the  nabours'  by  the  flowers." 

"  Your  favourite  flowers  ?  "  I  conjectured. 

"  Begor,  yes,  yer  reverence,"  said  John. 

He  seemed  to  linger  as  if  he  wished  to  say  something. 

"You  wouldn't  mind  doin'  me  a  little  favour,  yer 
reverence  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  replied. 

"  Would  you  mind  sayin',  yer  reverence,"  he  con- 
tinued, ''  that  the  baby  is  the  dead  image  of  herself  ? 
It  puts  her  in  wondherful  good  humour  !  " 

"  But  is  it  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Well,  some  say  it  is  ;  and  some  say  it  isn't,"  said 
John,  with  a  puzzled  look.  "  But  sure  that  makes  no 
matther." 

"  An'  you  won't  be  offended  ?  "  I  said. 

"  Oh,  begor,  I  won't,"  said  John,  "  if  it  plases  her- 
self." 

It  was  not  difficult  to  find  John's  house.  Afar  off,  it 
blazed  in  colours  against  the  more  modest  drab  appoint- 
ments of  its  neighbours  ;  and  when  I  came  quite  close 
to  it,  I  was  blinded  with  the  splendours  of  the  much 
despised,  but  gaily  painted  favourite  of  this  great  gar- 
dener. Nasturtiums  of  every  colour,  orange,  red,  deep 
maroon,  purple  ;  and  striped  and  spotted  in  every  im- 
aginable hue,  flaunted  their  glories  all  around  garden, 
window,  and  door.  Two  beds  of  dwarf  nasturtiunn 
filled  the  little  plots  in  front  of  the  house  ;  and  from 
their  centres,  two  rose  trees,  in  full  bloom,  but  looking 
very  much  ashamed  of  themselves,  were  propped  by 
little  canes,  and  languished  and  faded  in  the  midst  of 
their  more  picturesque  and  hardier  brethren.  But 
these  latter  plebeians  forced  their  strong  tendrils  every- 
where, and  threw  out  in  splendid  profusion  their  beau- 


AFTERMATH  575 

tiful  bells.  What  music  they  would  make,  if  God  had 
given  them  tongues,  that  would  swing  in  the  breath  of 
the  breezes  ! 

Mary  was  bending  over  her  fire-place,  when  I  drew 
the  bolt  of  the  half-door.  She  came  forward,  with  a 
hot  blush  on  her  face  from  the  lire  and  the  surprise. 

''  I  was  up  at  the  Doctor's,  iNIary,"  I  said,  "  and  met 
John.     Do  you  know  what  the  fellow  told  me?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  yer  reverence,"  she  said. 

"  lie  told  me  he  didn't  know  whether  he  was  married 
or  not." 

"  He's  the  bio'Efest  omadhaun  from  here  to  Cork,"  said 
Mary,  with  a  frown.  "I  do'  know  what  to  tliink  of 
him  ;  or  how  the  Docthor  has  patience  wid  him." 

"However,"  I  continued,  "he  told  me  I  should  find 
the  house  by  the  flowers ;  and  there  was  no  mistake 
there.  You  have  the  neatest  cottage  in  Rossmore, 
within  and  without." 

I  looked  around  ;  and  it  was  pretty.  The  tiled  floor 
was  spotless  ;  the  brass  candlesticks  and  ])ewter  vessels 
shone  brightly  ;  a  canary  sang  out  its  little  welcome  in 
the  window,  and  tried  to  drown  our  voices  with  its  shrill 
piercing  notes;  the  kettle  sang  merrily  on  the  range. 
Tlie  wliole  was  a  picture  of  comfort. 

"The  Cicncral,"  I  said,  "could  lind  no  fault  here." 

"  I  wouldn't  lave  him,"  said  Mary.  "  He  kem  wance 
to  tlie  dure ;   but  no  farther." 

"Boiling  water?"  I  suggested. 

"  Not  as  bad  as  that,  yer  reverojice,"  said  ^lary,  laugh- 
ing. "Hut  lie  kem,  and  looked  in,  and  said:  'I  am 
very  much  plased  to  see  your  cottage  kep'  so  nate,'  sez 
he.  'I'm  thankful  for  yer  good  o]Hiiion,'  sez  I.  'I 
shall  tell  the  missis  and  Miss  Dora,'  .st-z  he,  'that  this  is 
a  moral  (model)  cottage,  an'  Til  have  'em  put  down  yer 
name  for  the  next  distribution  of  prizes  for  nateness 
and  claneness,' sez  he.  'Ye  needn't,'  sez  I.  'It  isn't 
for  prizes  I'm  workin'  day  and  night,  but  because  it  is 
the  right  thing  to  do  ;  and  'twas  what  the  nuns  and  the 
priests  taught  us.'     He  looked  cross  at  this.     '  1  hope 


576  LUKE   DELMEGE 

ye  keep  no  fowl  here,'  sez  he.  '  That's  me  own  business, 
sez  I.  '  Did  ye  get  yer  rint  on  Saturday  niglit? '  sez  I. 
'I  did,'  sez  he,  shamefaced  like.  'Thin,'  sez  I,  'what 
brings  ye  thrapezing  around  here,  instid  of  mindin'  yer 
own  business  ? '  With  that  aff  he  wint,  an'  he  never 
kem  near  since." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  talked  up  to  a  land- 
lord like  that  ?  "  I  asked. 

"An'  why  not?"  asked  Mary.  "Didn't  the  masther 
tell  us,  a  hunder'  times  that  we  wor  as  good  as  they, 
ivery  bit,  that  we  wor  all  the  same  flesh  and  blood  —  " 

"  He  would  be  glad  to  see  you  so  happy  now,"  I  said; 
"and  all  his  lessons  so  carefully  carried  out." 

"  So  he  would,  yer  reverence,"  said  Mary,  with  a  little 
sob. 

As  I  looked  around,  my  eye  caught  some  pink  em- 
broidery in  a  corner.  There  were  little  bits  of  lace  and 
edging  on  a  deep  background  of  pink  calico.  I  looked 
at  Mary. 

"  It  isn't  ?  "  I  said  inquiringly. 

"  It  is,  yer  reverence,"  said  Mary,  with  a  smile  and  a 
blush.      "  Won't  you  give  her  your  blessing  ?  " 

I  went  over  and  gazed  admiringly  at  the  little  bit  of 
humanity,  that  was  blinking  its  black  eyes,  and  groping 
with  its  soft,  tiny  fingers,  for  the  mystery  of  the  world 
on  which  it  was  embarked.  Dear  God  !  it  was  turned 
out  perfectly  from  Thy  adorable  hands,  even  down  to 
the  little  pink  finger  nails. 

"  I  don't  want  to  flatter  you,  Mary,"  I  said,  "  but  it's 
the  dead  image  of  you." 

"  Oh,  law,  yer  reverence,"  said  Mary,  with  a  smile  of 
pleasure,  "  sure  every  wan  says  she's  as  like  Jolin  as  two 
pays.'' 

"  Like  John  ?  "  I  exclaimed  indignantly.  "  Nonsense ! 
She's  no  more  like  John,  than  —  than"  —  the  metaplior- 
ical  faculty  failed  me,  until  my  eye  caught  a  tendril  that 
was  pushing  a  yellow  blossom  over  the  half-door — '•  than 
a  rose  is  like  a  nasturtium.  Not  that  I'm  disparaging 
the  latter,"  I  interjected.     "  So  it  is  a  young  lady  ?  " 


I 


AFTERMATH  57*1 

"  It  is,  yer  reverence,"  she  said. 

"  Miglit  I  ask  her  name  ?"  I  said. 

"  Well,  thin,  'tis  a  quare  wan  enough.  At  laste,  we 
niver  had  it  in  our  family,"  said  JNlary.  "  I  wanted  to 
have  her  called  JNlary  after  the  Blessed  Virgin ;  but  the 
Docthor  said,  '  No  !  call  her  afther  yer  late  masther's 
pattern  saint,'  sez  he,  'and  call  her  Ijarbara.'  And  sure 
it  sounds  quare,  yer  reverence,  like  them  haythens  and 
blacks  we  hear  about  in  the  Annals."'' 

"  Barbara  (jlavin  !  "  I  repeated.  "  It  sounds  well  ; 
and  I  may  tell  you,  Mary,  the  Doctor  Avas  right.  It  is 
the  name  of  one  of  the  sweetest  saints  in  the  calendar, 
wlio  died  some  centuries  ago  ;  and  another  dear  saint, 
who  is  still  living.  May  your  baby  take  after  both  ; 
and  she  Avill  be  happy  !  " 

This  a|)p('ared  to  satisfy  Mary  ;  so  I  had  less  reluc- 
tance in  asking  was  John  fond  of  the  baby. 

"  Fond  ?  "  said  Mary.  "  He's  dying  about  her.  He 
thiidvs  of  nothing,  morning,  noon,  or  night,  but  the  baby. 
And  when  she  has  a  little  fit,  you'd  think  he'd  go  clane 
out  o'  his  mind." 

"  And  he's  keeping  all  right  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  He  is,  your  reverence  ;  but  'tis  the  baby  agin.  Whin 
John  has  the  fit  on  him,  he's  moody  and  sullen  like  for 
days.  'Tis  the  thirst,  you  know,  comin'  upon  him.  Thin 
I  gets  wan  of  the  boys  to  come  in,  be  the  wiiy  of  no  harm, 
and  say,  'John,  that  baby  is  as  like  you  as  two  pins.' 
John  says  nothin',  till  they  go  oul.  Thin,  lie  ups  and 
takes  the  baby  out  of  her  cradle,  and  (huigles  her,  and 
kisses  her  ;  an'  1  know  tlie  fit  is  over  him." 

"  God  bless  that  baby,"  I  cried.  "•  She's  doing  a  hard 
thing,  playing  a  doubh'  pait,  and  doing  it  successfully." 

"Would  your  reverence  like  to  see  our  little  i)ar- 
lour  ?  "  said  Mary. 

"To  be  sure,"  I  exclaimed.  And  it  was  worth  see- 
ing. I  recognized  some  of  Luke's  little  belongings 
which  he  left  to  his  faithful  servant :  and  over  near  the 
window,  looking  to  tlie  north,  wliieh  I  believe  is  tlie 
right  location  for  neutral  light,  Mary,  with  true  artistic 
2p 


578  LUKE   DELMEGE 

taste,  had  placed  an  easel,  and  on  that  easel  was  a  pic- 
ture. I  took  it  up.  It  was  the  oil  painting  of  Olivette 
Lefevril  —  the  scene  of  the  skeleton  ship  from  "The 
Ancient  Manner."  And  over  the  mantelpiece  were 
Mary's  two  heroes,  Robert  Emmet  and  St.  Antony  ; 
and  between  them,  in  the  place  of  honour,  was  a  gor- 
geous photograph  of  Luke  Delmege.     I  went  over. 

"  'Tis  the  masther,"  said  Mary. 

"  So  it  is,"  I  said.  "  You  have  put  him  in  good  com- 
pany, Mary." 

"•  Not  too  good  for  him,  yer  reverence.  He  was 
aiqual  to  them  all." 

1  don't  know  what  that  "all"  comprised;  but  I  said 
as  I  parted  from  Mary  :  — 

"  At  least,"  I  said,  "  he  has  a  noble  immortality. 
Mary,  you  are  a  good  girl.      God  bless  you  I  " 

"An'  God  bless  you,  too,  sir  !  "  said  Mary. 

I  should  call  on  Father  Tracey.  When  I  entered 
his  humble  lodgings,  and  saw  them  stripped  of  every- 
thing but  tiie  barest  necessaries,  the  old  spirit  of  joking 
came  over  me,  and  I  was  going  to  say  :  — 

"  I  hope  you  have  complied  with  the  statutes,  and 
made  your  will.  Father  I  There  will  be  serious  litiga- 
tion about  your  assets  —  " 

But  the  holiness  of  the  old  man  stopped  me.  And  it 
was  not  that  holiness  that  brings  its  burning-glass  to 
bear  on  the  naked,  quivering  nerves  of  your  soul,  and 
lights  up  all  its  multiform  diseases  ;  but  that  humble 
sanctity  that  places  itself  at  your  feet,  and  gently  pro- 
claims its  superiority  by  the  abasement.  I 

He,  too,  was  enthusiastic  about  Luke. 

"  He  was  not  known,  my  dear,  he  wasn't  known,  ex- 
cept to  the  Bishop  and  myself.  Ah,  my  dear,  the  world 
is  full  of  saints,  if  we  could  only  find  them  out." 

"  I  am  writing  Luke's  life,"  I  said,  "  and  I  thought 
you  could  give  me  some  lights." 

"  Is't  me  ?  God  bless  me,  what  do  I  know  ?  But 
say,  he  was  everything  great  and  good  ;  and  would 
have  been  a  Bishop,  if  he  lived." 


AFTERMATH  579 

I  stole  the  old  man's  beads.  I  couldn't  help  it.  The 
axle  of  this  weary  world  would  not  creak  so  loudly,  if 
the  oil  of  gladness,  poured  from  such  humble  hearts, 
were  lavished  more  fi-eely. 

Lastl}^  1  visited  the  well-known  scene  of  Luke's 
latest  ministrations.  This  was  easy  enough,  for  it  was 
quite  close  to  me.  It  was  a  lovely  summer  evening  as 
I  drove  into  the  village.  The  present  incumbent  was 
not  at  home  ;  but  I  i)ut  up  ni}'  horse  and  trap  at  his 
Iiousc,  and  strolled  leisurely  up  to  the  church  wliere 
Luke  is  buried.  As  I  entered,  there  was  a  whispering 
in  the  gallery  overhead  ;  and  the  little  village  choir, 
seeing  a  i)riest,  thought  they  should  manifest  some  ])iety 
and  good  works.  They  sang.  Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee! 
I  listened  ;  and  it  sounded  very  sweetly  and  very  ap- 
propriately there  in  that  calm,  summer  twilight. 

Tlioiigli,  like  the  wanderer, 

The  sun  gone  down, 
Darkness  conies  over  me, 

y\\  rest  a  stone; 
Yet  in  my  dreams  I'd  be 
Nearer,  my  (iod,  to  Thee, 
Nearer  to  Thee. 

I  went  up  (juii'tly  to  say  a  prayer  over  ^^'here  he 
slept.  A  jx^or  woman,  her  frayed  shawl  drawn  over 
lier  head,  was  leaning  on  the  Communion  rails,  right 
over  Luke's  grave.  Her  hands  were  clasped  around 
her  little  child,  who  sat  on  the  broad  ledge  of  the  rails, 
and  kicked  and  crowed,  and  tried  to  take  the  beads 
from  hei-  mother's  hands.  The  woman  was  playing 
aloud.      I  gently  said  :  — 

'•^  Wliere  is  Father  Delnn'ge  buried?" 

"There,"  she  said,  ])ointing  to  the  floor.  '•'  ^Liy  the 
heavens  be  his  bed  to-night  !  " 

"You  knew  him?"  I  asked. 

"(iood  right  I  had  to  know  him,"  she  replied.  "'Look 
at  thim,  yer  reverence,"  holding  up  the  ehild"s  ehuljby 
leg,  "thim's  the  last  he  give  me  and  mine  —  (iod  be  good 
to  him,  me  darlin'  priest 


t  " 


580  LUKE   DELMEGE 

Sister  Eulalie  may  rest  easy  now.  The  poor  did  love 
him  indeed. 

I  passed  into  the  sanctuary,  and  copied  for  my  readers, 
there  in  the  summer  twilight,  the  Latin  inscription  on 
the  marble  slab  in  the  wall.     It  runs  thus  :  — 

HIC    •   JACENT 

OSSA 

ADM    •    REV    .    LUCAE    •    DELMEGE 

OLIM    •    IN    •    SUO    .    COLLEGTO    •    LAUREATI 

NUPER    •    HUIUS    •    ECCLESIAE    •    RECTORIS 


NATUS    •    OCT    •    12    •    1854 


OBIIT    •    NOV    •    20    •    1898 

AMAVIT    •    LABORAVIT    •    VIXIT 

REQUIESCIT 

It  is  Father  Martin's  composition.  I  should  have 
liked  to  add  another  word,  but  I  couldn't  find  the 
Latin  for  it  ;  and  in  any  case  Father  Martin  wouldn't 
allow  it  ;  for  he  would  never  admit  that  Luke  was  per- 
plexed about  anything.  Poor  Luke  !  It's  all  the  same 
now  !  He  has  long  since  found  in  the  vast  mirrors  of 
the  Infinite  the  solution  of  tlie  Great  Enigma. 


i 


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